


Royai Roulette

by LadyAureliana



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: 10th Century, 1940s, Alternate Universe, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Historical, Magic, Romance, Wartime Romance, sorcery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2019-10-18 03:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17573270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAureliana/pseuds/LadyAureliana
Summary: This is a collection of short stories and one-shots featuring Mustang, Hawkeye, and friends within a variety of settings and time periods.No. 1 - The HuntedNo. 2 - The Lost SorceressNo. 3 - The Doctor and the GunsmithNo. 4 - Se Traiment





	1. The Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For days Roy had been trapped behind enemy lines, at the mercy of the elements, and death seemed the only possible outcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola :) This first chapter is a short-ish story that I started writing on vacation, and the idea refused to leave me alone. It was inspired by portions of the movie Centurion, which tells one version of the disappearance of Rome's Ninth Legion in ancient Scotland. I changed a few things, and switched the setting to the FMA universe (without alchemy). I hope you like the story!
> 
> AN: (09/01/19) Updated with some edits/corrections - no changes to plot.

Southern Drachma – 100 AD

Roy had been running for days, so long that he'd forgotten the last time he was able to fall to the ground and gasp for air like a man drowning. The others felt it as well, he knew. They were three legionnaires in the Amestrian military, fleeing for their lives in an unfamiliar hell, each trying to ignore the near certainty that they would soon die. Part of him wondered if that's why they were sent on a fool's errand, to die.

At that moment, however, such thoughts were useless, and he instead focused on forcing one foot to plod in front of the other, nearly rolling his ankle on an unsteady rock. Mercifully, the man at the head of the line slowed, and the trio wasted no time in collapsing onto the frozen earth. He could feel the cold seeping through his skin, but ignored it in favor of the intense relief flooding his limbs. He'd even landed on a few stones, and only considered that long enough to recognize the good fortune that he did not crack his skull.

All too soon his fingers grew stiff from the biting, snow-laden wind and, taking a deep breath, he fought to stand in spite of protesting muscles and dwindling willpower. The cut on his abdomen tore open a fraction with each movement but he pushed away the pain, peering at the moonlit terrain ahead. "We must keep going." He'd given the men his word, and he would get them home.

The young centurion known as Ling groaned miserably, rolling onto his stomach to push himself up. He had only recently become a soldier, starting out as a tradesman following the legion north, and making a small fortune along the way. Now, he may never see Amestris again.

"Mustang."

He spun at the sound of his name to find the veteran, Fu, pointing to the north and, just where the mountains faded into snow and trees, a line of horses was visible following the ravine. His gut sank. "Let's move."

At the sight of their pursuers his body resumed its race more willingly, trudging up the slope and ever southward. They had escaped the Drachman encampment five days prior, after being taken captive during a scouting excursion, though for all he knew it might have been weeks; the hours simply bled together. The tracker following them was a woman, known as the Ice Queen, and somehow she always managed to find them. Her presence at their backs was constant, and she moved with the unhurried gait of a predator that knew its prey could only run so far. And she was correct. They were fatigued, half-starved, and racing through the Drachman wilderness in midwinter. If she did not end them, frostbite would.

They tried to forage for anything edible, but the land was icy, with only scattered patches of barren soil. There were few animals to be found and most were small, scurrying away before they could be caught. When thoughts of food made his stomach churn painfully Roy stared ahead, hoping to suddenly see the Amestrian border in the distance, though he never did.

Behind him rose a strangled cry and he turned to rush back the way he'd come, dropping stiffly next to Ling, who writhed in pain and clutched his arm. Fu knelt by the man, putting a hand over his mouth to stifle the shouts, and Roy shook his head when he spotted a streak of white poking through skin. He searched for anything he might use to bind it, settling for tearing several strips from his own tunic. Leaning over him, he said, "You _cannot_ scream." Ling's eyes widened in fright as he nodded fiercely, and Roy took his arm, glancing around them when the man bit back cries. He wrapped it securely, hoping to keep both bone and tissue in place until they had a moment to reset the injury properly. He could only hoped they would find that moment.

They pulled Ling to his feet, the young soldier bracing the arm against his chest, face pinched in agony. Before they could even think of moving forward, the whinny of a horse was carried aloft on the wind and the men shared stunned, exasperated looks. "That woman is a _demon_ ," Fu growled, glowering northward as though he would rather take on the entire Drachman hoard than retreat any farther. "Only dark things could follow us in this." The experienced veteran had been in the army most of his life and, after surviving so many battles, Roy refused to let him die a fugitive in a foreign land.

"You're superstitious, old man." He received a scowl in response but paid it little mind. Lost in thought, he took a couple steps forward and asked, "Ling, can you handle a climb? We need to move to higher ground."

The injured man shook his head hesitantly. "I doubt it."

"What do you have in mind?" Fu asked.

Roy gestured toward the ridge they'd been following. "I remember this place. This line runs for miles in either direction. If we climb, the horses won't be able to pursue, and we should be able to cross to the other side."

"They could follow us over on foot."

He nodded. "True, but not all of them. Some will have to stay with the mounts, and it will take them days to circle round."

The older man grinned. "And the storm's worsening. It'll buy us time."

"Ling?"

"You go. I'll lead them on a chase, give you time to escape. I'm only going to slow you down."

Roy shook his head. "I'm not leaving you behind." He gave him a light push, starting them up the steepening incline. "You didn't really have a choice."

They trudged higher, inevitably slowing as the ascent became more arduous, loose stones and exhaustion causing more than a few slips along the way. Unimaginably, the air grew colder, the wind whipping past them as the snowstorm intensified. White drifts continued to expand in various places along the rise, their depth difficult to ascertain. He searched behind, but blowing snow had almost obliterated the surrounding terrain, masking those who chased them from view.

Finally, after nearly an hour, he saw a gap in the ridge, two rocky crags jutting skyward on each side of the opening. He wordlessly pointed toward it before throwing Ling's uninjured arm over his shoulder, the pain was clearly weakening him. Noticing how saturated with blood the improvised bandage had become, he attempted his best reassuring tone and said, "We'll rest soon."

With some difficulty they crossed the ridge line and started down the other side, still trying to head south whenever possible. He had to repeatedly keep them from gaining too much momentum on the downward trek, not wanting to lose his footing and crash into a tree downhill. They were, perhaps, halfway to the treeline when he felt something sharp graze his side. He winced, a few choice curses leaving him when an arrow stuck into the dirt several feet ahead. Forgetting his previous concerns, he increased his pace, careening down the slope with Ling while Fu whipped a knife back at the archer.

The trio continued the sprint, disappearing into the forest, but he brought them to a halt after they had only traveled several meters, lowering Ling to the ground to rest against a tree. Drawing the sword he'd managed to steal when they first escaped, Roy gestured for Fu to circle back in one direction and he took the other. To the young soldier he said, "Draw them here."

With Ling's pained shouts floating through the air, he vanished into the haze of dim, snow-covered trees. For a short distance he could hear the man, until all sound melted away, muffled by thickly grown pines and brush. When he heard the softly padding steps of their followers, he concealed himself behind a rotund trunk, leaning his head back and taking a deep breath, eyes sliding shut. He shook out his sword arm, searching within for the tiny amount of energy he'd reserved for foolhardy, last-ditch attempts at freedom, that strength which always seemed to find him when he needed it most. He would still be slower than normal, however, which meant he had to make each strike count.

Listening to his enemy advance, he abruptly spun around the tree, but the man must have heard him because his gut-aimed attack was met with a firm block. They simultaneously stepped back and then Roy lunged, feinting right before twisting left and slashing at the enemy's shoulder. Rather than find its mark, his sword glanced off the man's blade and he felt metal cut into his own hip. Setting his jaw in frustration, he parried an attack with a somewhat wild swing and the Drachman's weapon became embedded in a tree. He then lashed out with a kick but his opponent jumped backward to avoid it and tripped over an exposed root when he did, landing awkwardly. While the man tried to rise Roy pulled the sword from the tree trunk with his free hand, running both blades across his throat before he could stand.

Embarrassingly short of breath, he turned to watch Fu wrench his weapon free of another pursuer's chest. "They sent only two?" the older soldier asked incredulously, both men stooping to pilfer anything useful from the bodies.

"This huntress' confidence is irksome," Roy muttered as he examined an enemy's knife. "And we need to find somewhere to rest."

"I agree," Fu replied, filling his arms with the furs worn by the fallen. "But I'm unfamiliar with this terrain. I've never ventured to this side of the ridge."

"Nor have I, but we'll manage."

They returned to Ling, divided the furs and food amongst themselves, and set off away from the mountains. The storm grew more intense as they went, the snow continuing to fall, and he drew comfort from the thought that nature might cover their trail to some extent. It was a stroke of luck that the forest blocked much of the wind, as that last fight had drained what strength remained him, and the simple task of walking had become even more onerous.

At the sight of a light up ahead, he hardly dared hope that they might find help and, when it turned out to be a small cottage, the others hurried toward it, smiling in relief. Roy, on the other hand, noticed the symbols etched into the bark of nearby trees, saw the bone-carved figurines hanging from branches. It was unnerving, but not enough to dissuade him from cautiously entering, nor was it sufficient to keep him from sitting before the fire. Fu and Ling fell onto the bed, and somewhere in his fatigue-addled brain the thought surfaced that the bright candles scattered about the room surely meant the cabin's owner had not gone far. However, the warmth lulled him to sleep much too quickly for him to fully recognize that truth.

* * *

Pushing the basket's handle into the crook of her arm, Riza closed her eyes, lips curving as snow flakes softly fell on her cheeks. The forest around her was quiet and, while some would find that eerie in the dead of night, for her it was peaceful. The wind occasionally whistled through the highest of branches, or even minutely jostled the hood covering her blonde hair, but within the protection of the trees there was mostly silence. To her companion, she said, "How do you always talk me into wandering around in the middle of the night?"

"You secretly enjoy it," Gracia replied, snow adorning her light brown locks. "And you _know_ this is the best time to harvest them." She gestured toward their baskets, which were laden with a type of mushroom that happened to flourish in the winter, conditions being milder in the woods.

"So you say."

" _And_ you love my wild mushroom soup."

"That's true enough." Seeing that they were nearing her one-room cottage, she added, "You go on in. I'll bring the rest." The domicile looked utterly quaint, blanketed white with two small windows glowing warmly. Inside it boasted a wooden bed with straw mattress and furs, a modest table and bench made for her by a friend of Gracia's, and a stone fireplace. From the ceiling hung bunches of dried herbs, which filled the cabin with the comforting scents of sage and thyme, and a kettle bubbled on the fire for tea.

She had just reached the outdoor table, on which rested another filled basket, when a piercing shriek cut through the night. It came from the cottage and she instantly dropped what she carried, rushing through the doorway where Gracia stood immobile. Not far away were three men, two near the bed and one before the fire, all of whom seemed to have been woken by the other woman's scream.

The men wore Drachman furs, but she could discern the tunic common to Amestrian soldiers beneath. The youngest held one arm to his chest, blood seeping from a rudimentary bandage, and a gray-haired soldier watched her with the eyes of someone trying to ascertain the level of threat she presented. The tall man near the fire, whose dark hair hid his eyes, was the first to move, and when he stepped forward she pushed Gracia behind her, saying in quiet Drachman, " _Find_ _help._ _Run_."

Riza eyed the sword on her wall as she paced backward through the door, lamenting the fact it was uselessly positioned out of her reach. She searched for any means of defense and grabbed a pouch from the table, the eldest soldier coming toward her. Behind him, the tall centurion that seemed to be the leader ordered in Amestrian, "Put the knife down, Fu."

"She could be with _them_ ," the old man replied, still approaching slowly, blade in hand.

When he tried to grasp her wrist, she reached into the pouch for a fistful of black powder and tossed it in his face. He coughed, lurching unsteadily in her direction, and then fell with a look of utter confusion. Riza took his knife and faced the soldier that had first spoken, taking another large step backward when he drew his sword. Her back hit a tree and she instantly felt trapped but, rather than lunge for her, he adjusted his grip on the pommel and tossed the blade to the ground. He also pulled out a dagger and threw it aside, before raising his hands and telling her in Drachman, " _It's not our intention to harm you_."

" _You_ _r_ _friend felt differently_." She paused to evaluate him, and saw he was wounded as well. " _Who are you_?"

" _We're soldiers. We've been_ _on foot_ _for_ _several days,_ _and are in desperate need of food and_ _shelter_." He waved toward the cabin. " _My comrade is injured. I only ask for your aid_." More quietly, and with a sincere note of entreaty, he added, " _Please_."

Riza examined him for a long moment, and then switched languages. "Do all Amestrians make themselves comfortable in strangers' homes? Or just the soldiers?"

His mouth quirked in curious amusement. "Just us soldiers. We've terrible manners." He reached out a tentative hand and she shook it, pulling her hand back immediately. "You speak Amestrian."

She nodded, watching closely while he sheathed his sword. "And you speak Drachman. I've met very few soldiers that have taken the time to learn it."

He started to respond, but a crash inside the cottage drew their attention, and she eyed the man somewhat apprehensively. Making a decision, she rushed by him and knelt next to the injured soldier who had collapsed, peeling back the dressing. The wound was dirty and red, the limb was inflamed surrounding the injury, and she saw something white that she feared was bone.

"How is he?" the dark-eyed Amestrian soon asked. "I couldn't set it correctly before."

"It needs cleaned. Get him onto the bed and I'll redress it." She was passing him to fetch some cloth and herbs, when he firmly grasped her arm and pulled her behind him. Riza made to protest but he shook his head and half-drew his sword, eyes closed as if intently listening. He then tore it from the scabbard, leveling it at the neck of the neighbor that came bounding through the door. The newcomer raised his weapon to respond in kind, knocking the blade aside, and she stepped between them before the situation could escalate. She placed a hand on the soldier's wrist to lower his weapon and raised the other to her friend as a signal that he should back down. "It's alright, Maes. They haven't hurt me. They need help." For an instant, she thought she saw a glimmer of recognition in the Amestrian's eyes at the mention of that name, but she was uncertain.

"And the man outside?" Maes inquired, eyes warily jumping from one stranger to the next.

"He was a threat and I handled it. He's still alive." She waited until both men sheathed their blades and then said, waving toward the invalid on the bed, "Take this one to Gracia, will you? She's much better with broken bones. I'll come seal the wound in a little while."

He nodded, still observing the centurions with unveiled suspicion. "I'll take the one outside to Edward and have him secured."

"Thank you."

Maes lifted the young man and moved to leave. "I can come back."

With a look at the leader she shook her head. "I'll be fine." Her neighbor disappeared and, when the Amestrian made to follow, she put a hand on his chest. "Your friends aren't in danger. Gracia will set the boy's break, and the old man will be awake in a few hours."

He glanced toward the door. "What did you do to him?"

Riza started collecting various items: a needle carved from bone, herbs, a jug of wine, sutures, and cloth bandages. "There's a tree that grows near here. When its bark is ground into a fine powder and inhaled, it induces sleep." Setting all she'd gathered on the table, she said, "Remove your furs and tunic, please."

He let out a dubious chuckle. "Excuse me?"

"You're bleeding in a few places. I'll take a look, if you like."

The soldier appraised her for a short time and then complied, placing his neatly folded belongings on the bed. He took a seat on the bench she indicated and she commandeered a stool, facing him to give herself better access to the obvious cut on his chest. It stretched five inches and crossed the lower portion of his sternum diagonally, the right end slicing up across muscle while the left spanned downward over two ribs. It was bright red and, judging by his sharp inhalation when she touched the edge, it was also tender. Picking up the jug to drink the wine and thus demonstrate the lack of poison, she poured it on a square of cloth to clean the wound.

Riza could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath he took and, in light of their current position, now had an unobstructed view of his features: eyes as dark as his hair, a surprisingly straight nose given his occupation, muscular frame, angular jaw. And his skin was soft, not toughened by numerous battle scars or the elements as she might have expected.

Once the laceration was cleaned to her liking, she took up the needle, along with the flax sutures she'd made, and caught his eye. "Ready?"

With a wave of his hand, he requested the wine and proceeded to take a long, preparatory swig. "I'm Roy Mustang, second in command of the garrison at General Brigg's wall." He shrugged and took another drink. "I thought you should know my name, since you're about to stab me repeatedly."

She started to smile at the unanticipated declaration, and shook his hand once again. "Riza Hawkeye. I fear I have no striking title to give."

As she inserted the curved needle for the first stitch, he asked, "Do you plan to use your magic powder on me?"

She pulled the thread through, guiding it carefully. "No, but I can if you prefer."

"I'll manage." He set the jug aside, wine sloshing quietly as he did. "I apologize for invading your home without invitation."

Riza briefly met his eye while she worked. "Accepted." Throwing several more stitches, she added, "Brigg's wall. You're far from home."

He gave a clipped nod. "We escaped from a Drachman camp almost a week ago."

"Who hunts you?"

Mustang shrugged again, wincing when it pulled at the stitches. "They call her the Ice Queen, that's all I know."

She sighed softly and tied off the thread, producing a knife to cut the needle free. "Her name is Olivier, and she's never once lost her prey."

"That inspires confidence."

"I thought you'd find honesty more useful." She leaned back for more sutures. "This storm will buy you a few days, at least. That's something. Where's the next injury?"

With astonished eyes he pointed to his side. "That was quick." A brief pause followed that comment. "Your technique is...familiar. Where did you learn this?"

Riza repeated the same process she'd used for the other cut, starting with the cleaning. "There's a military post four days southwest. I lived there for nineteen years and was apprentice to the medicus for five. It's how I know your language."

"First, I've never met a medicus with a female apprentice..."

"I had the steadiest hands in the garrison," she interjected. "And second?"

"Second, I assumed your ability to speak my language had something to do with the gladius on the wall." He hooked a thumb at it. "If you grew up in a garrison, I'd hazard a guess that your father was an Amestrian centurion."

Her hands stilled, and she glanced at the sword in question before resuming her work. "Your powers of observation are irritating."

She both felt and heard his slow exhalation. "Apologies for my rudeness, but finding someone like you here, in the middle of the Drachman mountains...well, it's curious."

"Someone like me?"

"Riza," a voice interrupted, and she looked up to find Maes at her door. "Gracia's ready for you to stitch the gash on the boy's arm. And she has soup on the fire."

"We'll be finished in a few minutes." Returning her attention to her patient, she saw that blood soaked a section of his trousers near his right hip and carefully pulled them lower, nodding distractedly when she half-heard Maes inform them that he would wait. The wound was deeper than the others, so much that it was necessary to hold the cut open to flush it, and she felt him shift in discomfort. With her friend present silence fell over the group, for which she was thankful, as Roy Mustang had been getting entirely too inquisitive. Still, after the way he'd set aside his weapons to reassure her, and even moved to protect her before he knew Maes was no enemy, she did not feel threatened by him.

"Done," she announced, putting several items in a pouch and throwing on her cloak while the Amestrian dressed. When they strode out into the cold night air, Maes positioned himself between them, one hand poised on the hilt of his own gladius.

Once inside Gracia's cottage, she immediately set to work on the young soldier's wound, this requiring a few more sutures than Mustang's injuries. Shortly after she started, his pained squirming necessitated that she place a pinch of the black powder in a mug of wine and, as soon as he drank it, his body relaxed. The drug was not as potent when taken orally, but it would suffice. With him calmed she closed the wound quickly, after which the other woman wrapped it tightly to keep the limb stable.

Riza then dropped onto a bench at the table and gratefully accepted her own share of wine, coupled with a bowl of soup. "It smells wonderful."

"It does," Mustang seconded from her left, taking the seat beside hers. Another bowl was energetically plopped before him, revealing Gracia's continued anxiety in light of their unexpected visitors.

"Where are you stationed?" Maes asked to begin the conversation.

"The wall. I was sent into Drachman territory and captured." He set his utensil down and wiped his hand on his tunic before offering it to the other man. "The name's Mustang, and I cannot thank you enough for your assistance." Maes only shook his hand with a crisp nod, and the Amestrian continued hesitantly, "Where did you come by that gladius?" Riza tensed instantly at the question, and she saw Gracia nervously stir her soup.

"A traveler passing through found it on a dead soldier. I bartered it from him."

"Do you get many visitors passing through?" His food was already nearly gone, a testament to his level of hunger.

"No," Gracia softly responded. "They think we're witches. It keeps most people away."

The soldier was silent for a few seconds. "I saw the bones, and the carvings, but I was too exhausted to be frightened. We needed help." After another moment's hesitation, he stood and walked toward the door, indicating the other man's weapon with a hand. "You've nothing to worry about from me."

The three villagers eyed each other after their guest left, until Gracia broke the silence. "He _did_ remember you." Maes had met her when she was taken prisoner by the Amestrians, and deserted with her when he realized they meant to kill her. While he was not a priority, his general would doubtless wish to make an example of him if given the opportunity.

"We'll simply have to hope he's a man of his word, though I believe if he meant to turn me in as a deserter, we'd know." His eyes leapt to the doorway and then to Riza. "I think you should stay here tonight. I'll take them back to your cabin."

She shook her head, standing and reaching for her cloak. "You have the extra bed. Keep the boy here, he shouldn't move right now. I'll be alright with Mustang, and Fu can stay where he is."

"And if they dislike being separated? There's no way to know what they may do. I'd feel better if..."

"No," she interrupted, finishing her wine. "I believe he understands the situation he's put us in. I'm more worried about when Olivier might arrive."

Maes stood sharply. "You failed to mention that harpy's after them."

"My apologies. I've been a touch _occupied_."

"Yes, busy risking our lives. If we were smart, we'd turn them away."

"That's not our way, and you know it," Gracia said, cutting over his attempted protests. "I know you're trying to keep us safe, but the Ice Queen has earned none of our allegiance. I refuse to do anything that could even be construed as aiding her. I'm sure the others will agree."

"Forgive me. I dislike having centurions here." He heaved a sigh. "It's brought back memories I've fought to forget."

"They won't be here long," Riza replied, attempting to reassure him. She knew he felt no real ill will toward the men, that he was only concerned for the safety of their small community. "Everything will be _fine_." With that she stepped outside, brow rising in surprise when she saw Mustang leaning against an oak tree, waiting for her. "I thought you'd gone."

He matched her pace. "I didn't think it right to leave you to traipse through the dark forest alone."

"I frequently traipse around alone, as you say." She glanced over at him, only to find his face in shadow. "But thank you."

They were soon back at her cozy cottage and, hanging her cloak on a hook, she took the spare from a shelf and passed it to him. "I've no other blankets, but this is warm, and I'm afraid I only have the floor for you to sleep on."

"The floor is perfect," he said, taking the cloak with a nod of gratitude. "I'm sure it's more comfortable than stone." He was asleep as soon as his head hit the rolled up fur serving as his pillow, while Riza quietly went around blowing out candles. Crawling into bed herself, she contemplated the strange evening and wondered what the next day would bring.

* * *

Over the following days Roy fell into an unforeseen and strangely domestic routine, one that he'd not experienced since his teenage years, when he joined the military after his parents' death. Each day he would accompany her to check on Ling, who was healing well, and Fu, who was regretful of his earlier behavior. He'd also taken it upon himself to make the odd repair around her modest cottage, fetch fresh water for her, or perform any other task he thought might be useful. It was the least he could do to demonstrate his gratitude for her hospitality, but his assistance had caught her entirely off-guard.

When he first walked into the cabin with his arms full of freshly split kindling, Riza had looked at him as though he were some wholly inhuman creature, like she never would have expected the help in a thousand years. She stared at him in shock for a brief time, and then finally smiled, indicating the small rack to the left of the fireplace, which he filled. While she continued the preparations for bread, and a stew which smelled delectable, he chopped more logs for the fire. Afterward, she thanked him by checking his sutures and handing him a jug of wine to sip while she worked.

They chatted frequently during their time together, but Roy never again broached the subject of her parentage, as it seemed a sensitive issue. He'd been able to tell the moment they met that she was only half-Drachman, the other half in all likelihood Amestrian, and he wondered how a woman with her medical skills ended up in a remote village near the mountains. His own garrison could certainly use a medicus of her caliber.

As the storm raged outside, his evenings were often spent reading from a small collection of poetry he'd discovered hidden away in a faded mango-wood box. It contained parchment scraps she'd amassed during her time at the garrison, varying widely in size with verses scribbled by many different hands. Roy was thrilled, not having lain eyes on anything aside from terse Amestrian missives since he'd left home, and even added the few poems he remembered. Eventually they would retire, with her crawling into bed as he occupied his usual place on the floor, fresh cups of tea close to hand.

They did not stray from this routine until the third evening of his stay, when the village gathered to celebrate the marriage of a young man called Edward to a woman named Winry, who he'd heard was the best baker around. It was when the lot of them were crammed into Gracia's cabin, that he noticed the way Riza's face brightened when she laughed. Mirth glittered in her eyes, and her smile was warm, but it was barely an instant later that his own face fell, when he caught sight of an ominous scar on her neck. Someone, at some point, had tried to slit her throat, and it occurred to him that he earnestly disliked that idea.

Back in the comfort of her cottage, she watched him prepare their late-night tea, her cheeks gorgeously pink from wine. "You're not like other soldiers."

"How so?" he asked, his lips forming a grin of their own accord in response to her infectious smile. He filled a mug, adding a small amount of honey as he'd seen her do each morning, and slid it across the table.

"Your friend Fu, for instance. His first instinct was to be rid of me and take what he needed from my home. Yours was to protect me and seek my aid instead." She took a sip, nodding her approval. "Why did you join the military?"

Roy held her gaze, idly twisting the gold and obsidian ring on his right middle finger, the one remnant of his family's heritage. "My parents died when I wasn't much older than Ling. I'm a mason by trade, but no one wanted to hire a man of Xingese descent, not after the recent conflicts with Xing. I had few options." He took a hesitant breath. "What happened to your neck?"

Her eyes instantly saddened. "It was a parting gift from a friend." His brow furrowed at the unanticipated and cryptic reply, but she quickly changed the subject. "I should check your dressings." Suddenly she was kneeling beside him, lifting his tunic to delicately feel her meticulous sutures, and he could only watch her: fair skin shimmering, lips parted in concentration, cheeks slightly redder than before. "You'll have to cut the stitches once you've gone. I trust you'll be able to do so without ruining my good work?"

"I'll manage."

Seemingly avoiding his eyes, she took his hand, examining the ring with which he'd been toying and running a finger over the Xingese character etched into the gemstone. "I'm sorry about your family."

He gave a tiny nod. "Thank you."

Riza moved to the table for another sip of tea. "The symbol. What does it mean?"

"Honor."

"Fitting," she mused.

He glanced over, tapping his ring on the earthenware mug. "Shall I take that as your way of calling me honorable?"

The blonde only smiled.

Their pattern resumed after that, the only change being the initiation of morning walks around the village. She would explain the ideal routes to the garrison, depending on weather and myriad other factors, and he would make mental notes. Then, two nights after the wedding, she offered to give him half the bed, noticing that he'd developed pain in his neck from so many evenings spent on unforgiving surfaces.

"Control your hands, centurion," she teased.

Roy slept poorly that night, thoughts focused on the woman beside him, and he could tell she lay awake as well. The next morning she rose early, draped her cloak over her shoulders, and left without a farewell, basket in hand. Once she was gone, he put a kettle on the fire for when she returned and busied himself with the chores he'd taken on during the past several days.

With the sun continuing to rise overhead and her absence lengthening, he began to worry, and had just stopped in to ask Gracia where her friend liked to disappear when shouts suddenly came from outside. The sound of someone being thrown to the ground had him striding toward the door, even as a voice yelled in Drachman, " _Outside, traitors_!"

Maes appeared in front of him to stop his progress. "Get yourself, Ling, and Fu into the grain store under the floor. And keep quiet." When he did not move, the man added, "If you storm out there it'll be worse for everyone."

Roy set his jaw, contemplating something extremely stupid, when Fu yanked him into the grain store next to Ling, pushing floorboards into place above their heads. Maes and Gracia joined the others outdoors and, when the same authoritative woman spoke again, he assumed it was the Ice Queen. " _Three fugitives passed this way._ _T_ _ell me where they are_."

" _I've already told you_ ," he heard Riza defiantly respond. " _We've had no visitors, seen no one_." There was a pause, then, " _Search my home if you must, but touch nothing. I'd rather not have to burn it down_."

There was an indistinct shout, and through his mind ran images of someone grabbing her by the hair, placing a knife to her throat. As he imagined the worst, he reached reflexively for his sword, but Ling put a hand on his arm before he could draw it, shaking his head.

Outside, a gruff voice said, " _Olivier, enough._ _The gods preserved her, y_ _ou know her death would_ _displease the_ _m_."

Yet another yell rose outside the cabin, as she was no doubt thrown to the ground, and then he heard nothing. He did not realize why until a tall, heavy-set Drachman lumbered into the hut, looked around the single room, and promptly left. They were searching the village. After what felt like an age, but was probably only several minutes, the hunters left, hoof beats fading away to silence. At that point he threw a loose floorboard aside and crawled from the cellar, sprinting to Hawkeye's door and nearly colliding with Maes. She was seated on a stool near the fire, turned away from him, and he fell to his knees at her side, lifting her face toward him with a finger under her chin. Roy's stomach clenched.

A cut above her right eye dribbled blood down to her jaw, a bruise was already spreading on her left cheekbone, and that Ice Queen bitch had nicked her neck. He scowled, free hand forming a fist, but she spoke before he could say a word. "No lasting damage done." When he opened his mouth to argue she continued, "This wasn't my first beating. I'll live."

"I don't understand, they're your people. Why do they treat you this way?"

"Those Drachmans are _not_ my people," she vehemently rejoined, more anger and pain in her voice than he'd heard in their short time together. " _These_ are my people. When my father died the Amestrians forced us to leave. We came to Drachma, to my mother's family, but soon Olivier began to suspect us of witchcraft. To prove it she had my throat slit, and took the fact that my mother was able to save me as evidence that we were witches." She pulled part of her dress aside to show him the scar. "Fortunately, the man she ordered to kill me was rather...fond of me. It could have been worse."

"A parting gift from a friend," he muttered, repeating the words that had seemed so strange before. With a slow exhalation he shook his head again, curling a few strands of hair behind her ear as he cupped her face, running his thumb over her uninjured cheek. "I am so sorry."

Riza's lips fell open slightly in response, her eyes flicking from his gaze down to his mouth and back. He saw her chest rise, her hand reaching for the one he still held at her cheek, fingers lightly grazing his skin. Wiping a little dirt from under her eye, he grinned, and then Gracia came walking in and announced, "I brought more wine. You'd run out." She slowly lowered his hand before releasing it, and there was a brief silence as the other woman observed them curiously. "If you'll excuse us, I need to treat the cut over her eye."

With an awkward nod Roy stood. "Right, of course." He tried to catch her eye, and she gave him a little smile before he left to offer any assistance that might be needed. He whiled away the time helping to fix what damage the Drachmans caused to various homes and, by the time he returned to the cottage, it was already midday. She looked up when he stepped inside and leaned his sword against the wall, filling a mug with tea and gesturing for him to join her at the table. He watched the steam rise for several seconds before asking, "Are you alright?"

She nodded and, when she spoke, her voice was softer than usual. "I'm fine."

He tore a chunk of bread from the loaf on the table, more to entertain his hands than to eat. "Why did you help us, knowing they'd see it as a betrayal?"

Riza watched him, the corners of her lips turning upward. "Because they have no claim upon my loyalty, I'll help whomever I like." She paused, stirring honey into her tea. "And because you're a good man. You don't deserve the death Olivier would give you."

He slowly slid the ring from his finger and, taking her hand, pressed it into her palm. "I'd like you to have it."

She shook her head. "I couldn't..."

"Please. As a reminder of how grateful I am." He held her hand momentarily. "We would _not_ have survived without you."

She turned it around, and traced a finger over the band. "Thank you."

Afterward, they fell into their recently formed habit of sharing dinner, conversation, and a little wine. When they settled down to read he tried to force his eyes to follow the lines on the page, but more often than not they stole glances at the blonde. She looked lovely in the firelight and, though he had resolved to leave the next day, he knew a surprisingly large part of him dreaded leaving the peaceful village. Still, Roy had sworn to his men that he would do everything in his power to get them home, and he would not let them down.

To that end, he woke early the following morning and once more dressed in warm Drachman furs, since the frigid wind had not subsided even if the bulk of the storm had. The sun was bright, only the periodic snowflake flew on the breeze, and the improved weather gave him higher hopes. Just before their departure, Riza approached them in the center of town, handed him a satchel of food, and gave him a small smile. "Good luck, Amestrian."

"And to you, witch." He paused, slinging the bag over his shoulder. "Thank you. For everything." She responded with a silent nod and he turned to leave, Maes leading them toward the optimal path to the garrison. At the top of a nearby hill, he stopped a moment to look back, but she was already gone.

* * *

The first two days were comprised by an uncommonly tranquil run through the snow-covered woods, only interrupted by nightly breaks during which they slept fitfully and stretched the provisions as long as possible. To their dismay the huntress soon found their trail, and they spent the remainder of the trek to the garrison racing amongst trees, thoughts of hot meals and reinforcements keeping them moving. Their disappointment was indescribably acute when they reached an empty fort, with a hasty message scratched into the wall, informing them that General Levan's force had been ordered to fall back to a position ten miles further south. Roy picked up the charred leg of a stool, only to toss it away in frustration, while Fu vented his anger by slashing his sword at a wooden pylon.

From his position near the gate, utter defeat in his voice, Ling said, "We should move. They'll be coming."

"I'm _sick_ of running." Hands on his hips, he perused the treeline and then faced his men. "And you?"

Fu nodded, brandishing the sword as emphasis. "I'm in the mood to kill a few Drachmans."

"Ling?"

The younger man shrugged. "Did I mention I hate running?"

The trio set about building what barricades they could, planning their most effective defense, and positioning in strategic places the weapons left behind by the garrison's previous occupants. Ling stood at a look-out post with a pile of spears, Roy at another with the lone bow and quiver of arrows, and Fu stood menacingly on the ground level, watching the unlatched doors and waiting for some unfortunate Drachman to enter. They were no sooner ready than their pursuers materialized on the dirt road, riding lazily to the fort.

The leader, who must have been the Ice Queen, drew a sword and the group spread out, all galloping toward the wooden garrison. Roy let out a loud whistle, his signal that the enemy was trying to flank them, and then shared a look with Ling, both men letting weapons fly simultaneously. His arrow found a Drachman chest even as the first horseman crashed into the square below. He continued to fire, the clash of blades ringing behind him with Fu engaged, and even began to feel hopeful until their youngest comrade received an arrow to the back. The enemy had found another way inside, climbing from horseback up the log-built walls and onto the second story walkway.

"Ling!" he shouted as the boy fell, loosing all his remaining arrows in quick succession and dropping three more attackers. Ripping his sword from its scabbard, he blocked one burly Drachman's spear, kicking him up against a pylon and running him through. A groan escaped him when an arrow lodged in his left upper arm and, wrenching his blade free, he snapped the arrow shaft. Racing toward the enemy archer, he dropped into a roll to avoid another projectile and, when he came to his feet, swiped at the bow with his weapon, taking the man's hand in the process. Once he'd spun away to dodge the Drachman's last ditch lunge with a dagger, he knocked the knife away and sliced open his gut.

Roy looked up just in time to see Fu finish of his third enemy, a shout of anger leaving him when a spear pierced the older man's side. Searching the small yard, he found the huntress and sprinted toward her, jumping down onto her horse and taking them both to the ground. She hopped to her feet, sword in hand, and he rolled away, scrambling for his blade and blocking three attacks while still trying to stand. He then swept a leg around to ruin her balance and, as he rolled over her, she landed a punch to his jaw, to which he replied by gripping her neck. They twisted onto his back, and he was forced to block her dagger with a hand, jaw clenching as the blade passed through his palm. He punched her in the temple, her head whipped to the side, and he quickly kicked her in the stomach to send her off him. Clambering to his feet, he slowly pulled the knife from his hand as he walked toward her, kneeing her in the head when she tried to stand.

Lifting her by the hair with one hand, he brought the weapon to her throat, and she glared up at him with icy blue eyes full of hatred. " _Shit eating Amestrian._ _B_ _urn in hell_."

From nowhere she produced another blade, jamming it into his leg, and he grimaced, shoving the dagger into her neck and giving it an angry twist. Pulling out the weapon embedded in his thigh, he limped to both Fu and Ling in turn, finding no signs of life in either man. For a while he lay next to Ling's corpse, staring at the destruction around him and wondering what in hell he should do, where he should go. When only one truly desirable option occurred to him, he rose agonizingly to his feet and climbed onto the Ice Queen's horse, blood streaking up the animal's flanks.

* * *

Riza lay on the chilled ground and gazed up at a midnight sky dotted with white, distractedly spinning the gold and obsidian ring on her index finger. She had taken a walk to clear her mind, under the pretext of harvesting more mushrooms, even if it was not quite the middle of the night. In the days since the soldiers' departure, Gracia had been keeping a weather eye on her, as if expecting some powerful reaction. Her friend was convinced that she had witnessed 'something almost happen' and, while it was true she had enjoyed her time with Mustang, gotten to know him more than intended, she'd never been under any illusions. She always knew his visit would be short-lived.

With a sigh, she trudged down the hill, aware that Gracia was apt to send out a search party after what happened during her last solitary walk. She'd reached the trees, and was following the well-worn trail back to the cottages when the snap of a twig stiffened her spine. She reached for her knife, just able to discern a lone horse strolling through the woods, its rider slouched and swaying in the saddle. Her curiosity piqued she strode forward, smiling when she recognized the way the traveler's black hair stuck out in all directions.

He mumbled her name and dismounted clumsily, promptly listing to one side, and she raced toward him, reaching him just in time to support his weight before he dropped to the ground. Gripping his arm, her jaw dropped in horror when she felt an arrow shaft jutting from the skin, saw the gash on his thigh, the puncture wound through his hand. Her eyes grew wide in concern, and she partially turned to yell for help, hoping she was close enough to be heard. "Maes!"

Roy grabbed her hand, taking a raspy breath, and grinned when his finger ran over the ring. "You wore it." He cupped her face, a thumb grazing her cheek, and foregoing the previous hesitation, he kissed her softly. "I should have done that before."

"You're forgiven," she teased, solidifying her grip on him. "And you're _back_..." she added, the utterance somewhere between declaration and question.

He nodded. "To stay, if you'll have me."

"I suppose," Riza said, her lips curved as they rose laboriously to their feet. "Didn't I tell you not to ruin my good work?"

His chuckle swiftly turned into a groan. "No jokes, please." With her arm around his waist, and the horse's reins in her hand, they began the slow walk to the cottage, snow falling lightly around them.

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the story, and have a good one!


	2. The Lost Sorceress - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy Mustang is willing to do anything to save his mother, even if it means chasing a legend that may not exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola :) This story came about after I'd watched a couple movie versions of Beauty and the Beast, one the Hollywood live-action and the other a French film, also live-action, that had a slightly different take. Anyway, that got me thinking about what my own reworking of a fairy tale might look like and I started writing this. It's very loosely based on the Sleeping Beauty fairy tale and, since it ended up being much longer than anticipated, I've split it into two chapters. I hope you enjoy the first half!
> 
> AN: I decided to change the way I posted this story. Thank you to CT_Tup and Guest for the kudos when it was initially posted. They are appreciated! I also apologize for any inconvenience :)
> 
> AN: (09/01/19) Updated with some edits/corrections - no changes to plot.

The Northern Kingdom of Amestris – 1366

The hour was late and the torchlight dim as Riza Hawkeye, High Sorceress of the Five Kingdoms, hastily drew symbols in blood on the polished marble floor. A heavy silence had fallen on the vestibule in which she knelt, expecting the magnificent, iron-sheathed doors to open at any moment. A single set of footfalls abruptly echoed down the hall but she continued to work, with a dexterity and assurance that came from years devoted to practice.

The enchantment began with a quinquetra in the center, representing the magical elements of fire, earth, water, and wind, as well as sorcery itself. This was bordered by a circle around which a complex series of runes was traced, largely Drachman and Xerxian in origin. The entirety was enclosed by a final concentric circle intended to provide a boundary for the energy within. As she dipped two fingers into the chalice of lamb's blood in her hand, a voice behind her finally said, "You're going through with it."

She spared a glance for Maes Hughes, a sorcerer of the Northern Kingdom and one of the most capable practitioners she'd ever known. "I see no other option, do you?"

He crouched beside her, eyes examining the sigil. "This is ludicrous, Riza. You don't have to do this."

"We both know I'm the only one who can." She added a last stroke to one of the runes and stood, taking a step back to evaluate her work. "Did you evacuate everyone?"

He exhaled in resignation. "Yes. Your father took some convincing."

"What did you tell him?" Producing a handkerchief, she wiped the blood from her skin, voice quiet.

"The truth. And he agreed with _me_ , by the way." Hughes paused and, when he next spoke, his frustration was absent. "My apologies. I simply cannot believe it's come to this."

"I wish it hadn't." Her tone was sad for a moment, but then she gave a resolute nod. "It's ready. You should go."

"I think I'll stay, if it's all the same to you."

"It's not." Riza set the goblet aside and turned to face him, giving her friend a small, reassuring smile. "Thank you, Maes, but you have a wife and daughter who need you, and there's no reason to risk taking you from them." When he remained motionless, she added, "I can force you to leave, if you like."

"That won't be necessary, but I'll ask you once more to reconsider."

Thunder rumbled outside, so loudly that the walls shook and the chandeliers above swayed. "She's here." They shook hands, and she tried to come to terms with the fact that his was the last amiable face she would ever see. "Farewell, my friend."

"Good luck." He shook his head. "Gracia's going to kill me."

She chuckled as he left, passing a hand over the symbols to call a breeze that would hasten the drying process. The candles flickered in the airflow, and then moonlight suddenly spilled into the atrium as the doors were pushed open. Riza stepped into the middle of the enchantment, watching the tall, broad-shouldered woman that strode through the entrance, her hair pulled into a taught bun. The new arrival's calculating gaze surveyed the room while she fingered the string of pearls at her neck. "Clever girl. You _lured_ me here."

"I'm a bit shocked you fell for our ploy. It appears your lust for power has gotten the better of you." She shifted her skirt to keep the circle covered. "You allowed your judgment to be compromised."

"Is this where you lecture me on my wicked, wicked ways, _High Sorceress_?"

"No, Chris." With a flick of her fingers, Riza closed the grand double doors and, with another, she pulled the woman forward, trapping her in a second sigil. "This is where you die."

Palms facing the floor, she activated the spell, closing her eyes as an impossibly bright, blue-white glow erupted from the boundaries traced in blood. Energy roared around her, yanking at her gown, but she continued to put all her power into the enchantment, coaxing it into being. Then the light intensified and, lifeless, she fell.

* * *

The Westlands, Amestris (Formerly the Western Kingdom of Amestris) – 1463

Wind screeched menacingly outside the manor and Roy Mustang stared disconsolately at the smooth stone floor of his mother's chambers. Her hand was limp in his, she'd fallen asleep hours ago, and the doctor's words still echoed in his foggy mind: fever, delirium, muscle atrophy, seizures...two months...perhaps three. She had already tried to dive off the balcony four times, and if she lasted another three months it would be an absolute miracle.

Her health had been deteriorating for a year, beginning with the periodic bout of forgetfulness or fatigue prior to evolving into something considerably more severe. The first time she'd been confined to her bed they were terrified, but then she recovered, her energy returned, and they were ecstatic. Then a month later it happened again, and again, until his mother was forced to spend more time abed then anywhere else. When the hallucinations started she'd scream for hours, petrified by the body-less heads floating through the windows and the centipedes that crawled over her body. She was now a ghost of the woman she'd been, beaming smile and radiant eyes replaced by a haggard gaze and bony cheeks.

There were times that Roy passed her quarters at night and heard his father softly pleading with her to live, voice beseeching, "Lenora, _please_." They were completely ignorant of the cause of her illness, and now it seemed they would have to accept the inevitable.

With creaking joints and a heavy sigh his father, Duke of the Westlands, rose to his feet at the other side of the bed, taking sedate and discouraged steps toward the door. "You should come down for dinner."

"I lack the appetite." His father's only reaction was a quiet grunt and, after the heavy oak door thudded closed, Roy scanned the fire which burned low, a few glowing embers falling from the logs here and there. He stared so long that he lost track of time, taking advantage of the solitude to finally liberate the intense grief he'd repeatedly resisted. His mother was the kindest woman in the world, and she deserved far more than the slow degradation of her mind and body. Their home had become bleak during her illness, and he could not imagine it would return to its former happiness in her absence.

His head tilted slightly when an ember popped free and, rather than fall, levitated half a foot above the fire. It was joined by several others and they began to spin, whipping around a central point and drawing bright, interconnected lines in the air. The winds battering the windows worsened, bringing with it indistinguishable whispers. His grip tightened around his mother's frail hand and a large gust of air from the chimney caused the candle flames to jump. The spinning mass still glowed brilliantly, elongating and slowly moving to hover over the stones just in front of the grate. Then something clanged to the floor and the embers halted their flight, drifting slowly downward. Hesitantly, he paced forward to find a metal cylinder covered in unrecognizable inscriptions, and knelt to pick it up.

"Free her."

He whirled at the sound of a voice behind him, losing his balance and crashing to the floor with an extreme lack of grace. Before him stood a nearly translucent woman, as though the very wind had somehow been spun and molded into her shape. Her eyes glowed a muted blue and, upon a closer look, he could see the condensed air swirling within her limbs.

"You know what I am?" she asked, her voice hollow and oddly echoed, as if she spoke from a great distance.

Roy nodded, dumbfounded. "You're one of the sylphen...sprites that serve sorceresses. It was thought you'd died out."

She let out a lighthearted, almost mocking, giggle. "Not dead." The sylph knelt beside him, placing the cylinder in his lap. "Free her and your mother can be saved."

"Free who?"

Another giggle. "Take the unworn road, find the valley, the tempest will light your way."

"Free _who_? And what road?"

With what he'd swear was a smirk, the air in her form dispersed and, in less than a breath, she was gone. The candlelight sputtered once more as a final rush of wind flew out the chimney, and then silence reigned. Heart pounding Roy stood, warily eyeing every shadow and corner as he returned to his chair. His mother still slept, they'd been forced to keep her sedated for some time, and he focused his attention on the cylinder. It was barely a foot in length, two inches in diameter, and the exterior was full of etched symbols that were meaningless to him. He felt around for a seam, looking for an opening or cap and, as soon as his fingers touched one end, the metal simply melted away.

When he tipped the contents onto the bed, out fell a dagger wrapped in silk, followed by a small key. The latter object appeared to be ordinary, save for its size, and the scarf was the blue of a deep ocean, with more odd symbols embroidered at either end. The knife, on the other hand, was made of untarnished silver, seemingly just burnished, with rubies set in the cross guard. He'd never seen a weapon like it. Roy contemplated his conversation with the sylph and, with another look at his mother, he collected the items back in the cylinder and raced from the room.

* * *

Just shy of two hours later Roy was in his chambers, packing a few necessities while his men prepared mounts and provisions sufficient for a trek to the Northlands. He was intensely conscious of the fact that his self-appointed mission was likely foolhardy, that the outcome was unpredictable at best. In fact it was plausible, probable even, that he'd brave the northern wilderness for weeks only to return empty-handed. However, for a year he could only watch as his mother steadily declined and, even if the chances of success were slim, he would take any available opportunity to help her.

The quiet click of a door handle being engaged was his only warning, after which the Duke of the Westlands barged unceremoniously into his rooms. "I don't suppose I can talk you out of this. She'll have another good day. You should be here when she does."

"I hope to give her many more good days." Roy looked up from where he was lacing his boots. "We've exhausted every other avenue. I have to try."

"I thought you'd say that." His father crossed his arms and leaned against one of the bedposts. "If your mother can truly be saved, I'm hesitant to ignore this. Nevertheless..."

"I don't agree," interjected Halden Bradley, the sorcerer of the royal court, as he came sweeping into the room. The King of the Realms of Amestris had sent him to be of aid four months prior, but he had been unable to heal Lady Mustang.

"And why not? Whoever this person is, if they can help, it's worth it."

"You haven't a clue what's going on," the man replied condescendingly. "A stranger uses some magical trickery, gives you a mysterious treasure, and you're ready to rush into the unknown. Are you even certain it was a sylph? There hasn't been a reported sighting in a hundred years."

"Positive. I _saw_ her."

"Which one? Surely you know there are, or were, four. Wind...water...fire...earth?"

" _Wind_." On the nearest table, Roy rolled flat the rubbing he'd made of the cylinder's markings. "She kept telling me to 'free her,' but wasn't forthcoming with any details." He placed stones on the corners to keep the paper flat. "She didn't leave me with nothing, however. I believe this is a map."

"I think you're right," his father responded, resting his finger next to a cluster of symbols near the lower left-hand corner. "The Leímor Mountains, if I'm not mistaken."

"Then this would be the road to the old capital of the Northern Kingdom," Roy chimed in, tracing a gap in writing toward the center of the map.

"The Northern King's palace, to be exact. From before the unification of the realms." Bradley scratched at some scab beneath the patch over his left eye and leaned over the table. "And the symbols are based in sorcery. The language of magic, if you will."

"My grandfather often told me a story about that place when I was a boy. He said a woman was hidden away in the castle, trapped in a cursed sleep that no one knew how to break." Lord Mustang chuckled. "Everyone thought he was mad as a hatter. Seems he may have been right."

"That was a _myth_ ," the sorcerer said skeptically. "Nothing more than a bedtime story."

Lord Mustang held up a hand to stave off the man's tirade. "Do try to be more helpful, Halden."

" _Very well_ , my lord. She has gone by various names over the years…The Sixth Princess, Sleeping Beauty, The Lost Sorceress. In my circles it's been said she's a powerful practitioner, and some claim that she's actually a sylph." Bradley shrugged. "No one knows anymore, but I can tell you that the palace has never been found."

"I'll find it," Roy confidently replied, rolling up the map and sliding it into the cylinder with the other items. "I have to." He picked up his bag and strode to the door, pausing with his fingers on the handle when his father spoke.

"Roy, be cautious. If beings like the sylphen are on the move again, there's no telling what you'll find."

"I will," he nodded, disappearing into the hall beyond.

* * *

Nearly three weeks later Roy sat by the fire, feeling exceptionally frustrated and earnestly considering tossing the map at which he'd stared for hours into the flames. He'd been unable to understand how one could misplace a castle, but six days had passed since they reached the region in question, and he was at a loss for words. He would peruse the map, and proceed to gaze angrily at the spot where the palace should be, wondering how it was possible _not_ to find it. He presumed there must be magic involved but, according to the soldier Jean Havoc, who could actually read the symbols thanks to his mother's studies in his youth, the document mentioned nothing about the edifice's invisibility.

As it was, they sat in the middle of an unused road, surrounded by gnarled old trees and stone fragments broken by long years of exposure to the elements. The closest town was twenty-seven miles behind them and, the nearer they ventured toward the castle's supposed location, the more thickly grown the forest became. Few people lived so far northeast, not since severe earthquakes had shaken the region, and in their absence nature had taken over. They had scoured the land within a five mile radius of the non-existent stronghold, and had not found a single sign of human life.

Havoc soon dropped to the ground beside him. "All clear, milord."

"Thank you." He accepted the canteen offered and took a drink. "Not that I expected anyone to be around."

The other man chuckled appreciatively. "It's been a bit eerie. I've never been quite so far from civilization."

"My father would say the experience is good for you." He tore a chunk from a loaf of bread. "Still, make sure we have regular patrols."

"Of course, milord."

"Start packing. We'll break camp in the morning and head back," he said, not wishing to admit defeat but unsure of any other steps that might be taken.

"I'm sure we could give it one more day at least." The soldier lowered his voice. "I know His Lordship was hopeful as well."

"I was foolish to think a cure might literally fall into my lap."

"Very well, but may I suggest we move camp into the woods. To the west I saw a storm rolling in and..."

"A storm?" he interrupted, recalling the sylph's strange words: _the tempest will light your way_.

"Yes, and I..."

"No." Roy quickly stood, gazing westward to find dark clouds roiling above the trees. "We break camp now, have the men prepare to move."

"When?"

"I think we'll know."

They cleared the campsite, filled their packs, and then waited, dousing the fire shortly in advance of the storm's arrival. The sky gradually dimmed, making a comfortable autumn afternoon look like late evening, and the wind began to whip around them, branches swaying erratically and lighter twigs sailing past their heads. Several gusts were even powerful enough that the group was forced to steady themselves by clinging to tree branches.

The rain came down in torrents, blowing in their faces and soaking them through, but still they waited. Roy tried to look everywhere at once, uncertain of what to watch for and at the same time terrified he might miss it. Cautiously, they trudged down the road, barely able to see their own boots, and after nearly an hour in the deluge, they came upon a route that had not existed on their previous searches. With trepidation he scrutinized it for a short time, almost expecting some otherworldly beast to emerge from the shadows. Instead, he noticed the roadway was actively widening, the rain inexplicably causing the knotted trees, thorny bushes, and rope-like vines to recede, writhing away like creatures trying to escape.

Sharing a curious look with Havoc he strode forward, his horse's reins in one hand and sword in the other. They continued for miles, dodging holes and chips in the antiquated paving while vigilantly observing the forest on either side. Animals could be heard in the woods, but if any human had taken that road in the last century he'd have been acutely surprised. Only nature had touched that place for many years.

The remnants of stone walls lined what had clearly once been an important thoroughfare, and its condition improved the further they walked. The walls seemed to regrow from the rubble, imperfections in the road itself eventually vanished altogether, flowering shrubs popped up at regular distances, and it was then he realized rain no longer fell around him. He turned to see the storm seething behind them and, though the sky was still a dark mass, he could feel neither wind nor rain.

Roy paused to remove his coat and toss it over the saddle, hearing Havoc say at his side, "Your orders, milord?"

"We keep going, weapons at the ready. And leave two men here to watch the road."

"Yes, sir."

They were on the way again in minutes, but it was not until they'd traveled another mile that they finally saw the palace, its white towers rising imperiously into the sky. The walls surrounding the castle were white stone as well, with a great black gate standing open and, the instant they strolled into the bailey, the air became frigid, their respirations condensing as soon as they escaped. He placed a hand on one of the stones comprising the empty guardhouse, and discovered it was covered in a light sheen of frost, his skin coming away damp.

"Keep the horses outside," he ordered, sending his mount back through the gate and signaling for another pair of men to stay behind.

Frozen grass crunched and crumpled under their boots as they crossed the vacant yard, the sound of their steps echoing off the castle walls. The impressive, iron-wrapped front doors were wide enough for twenty men to walk abreast, and tall enough that a three-story house could have easily sat beneath the archway. They opened effortlessly when he pulled the handle, no locking mechanism jammed from years of disuse and nary a creak of hinges. In fact, they were not locked at all.

The foyer they found themselves in was luxurious, reflecting the Northern Kingdom's vast wealth, and looking around he wondered why it was ever abandoned. Everything was a milky white marble: the floors, the walls, and even the pillars rising to absurd heights. To his left a staircase with an ornate balustrade wound upward, a hall branched off to the right, and directly across the entryway stood another set of heavy black doors. Intricate chandeliers dangled from the vaulted ceiling at varying heights, hundreds of candles waiting to be lit. Wrought iron brackets were mounted between thick tapestries depicting the heroic kings and beautiful damsels of ancient legends. Every surface glittered, and it only took a touch to verify that the palace's interior was frozen as well.

Through the black doors was a great hall the likes of which he'd never seen. Lined with Doric columns, it housed five stone-carved tables that stretched the length of the room, countless ornate maple chairs, and one monstrous fireplace. When the group separated to search, he and Havoc took the stairs to the higher floors, which boasted a throne room with a single sword displayed on the wall, fourteen living suites, five parlors, six libraries, three billiards salons, and one room with a strangely life-like statue on a dais. Otherwise, the scenery was largely the same, with more white marble, tapestries, indulgent rugs, and candelabras.

They found nothing else of note until they reached a suite on the castle's fourth floor. At first it appeared to be like all the other living areas, opening on a private parlor which led to a bedchamber, this one decorated with blue and silver hangings. Upon reaching the sleeping quarters, however, instead of a bed they found a glass casket resting on a large pedestal. Inside were the desiccated remains of a human, with waist-length hair and a silver-embroidered black robe. One hand rested on her stomach, fingers clutching a dried rose, and the other held one end of a necklace with a silver chain. Roy took an awed step forward for a better look, and saw that the embroidery along the edges of the robe matched some of the symbols on the cylinder. "How can she be freed? She's _dead_." He stood there a minute longer watching the woman, his disappointment undeniable, but determined not to admit defeat until he was certain, he said, "We'll continue searching the palace, then regroup here."

Once they had finished scouring the building, including the various towers, the foursome reconvened in the dead woman's lodgings. Breda and Fuery brought in chairs from other rooms to avoid sitting on the icy floor, a blaze was started in the fireplace, and there Havoc carefully unrolled the symbol-laden map. While the other man read Roy examined the casket, running his fingertips over the seams and studying the tiny lock in the center of the lid. He pulled out the key, which he'd taken to wearing on a chain, and fit it into the mechanism. As he turned it the glass case dissolved, vanishing completely to leave the key swinging in midair. The woman smelled of lilies.

He took a step back, arms crossed over his chest. "Anything you can tell me would be wonderful, Havoc."

The blond soldier exhaled loudly, coupling it with a chuckle as he paced toward the pedestal. "Now, this isn't always a precise science, milord, but I think..." He paused. "...I _think_ we have to thrust the dagger into her chest. And then it either says to kiss her, or miss her. I believe we all know which makes more sense."

Roy spun on his heel. "You want me to kiss what is, essentially, a mummy?"

"Not me, milord, the map." Havoc pointed at the paper in his hand to emphasize that the blame did _not_ rest with him.

He strolled closer, eyes following the unintelligible writing. "Are you sure you're reading this correctly?"

"In truth, no. But as far as I can tell, it says what I've told you." He lowered the parchment. "Any one of us could..."

"No," Roy interrupted, combing a hand through his black hair. "I brought us here, it's my mother we hope to rescue, and I'll undertake whatever I must. Even if..." He tried to hide his slight cringe as his gaze drifted to the woman. "Very well."

Collecting the cylinder, he removed the dagger and stood beside the pedestal, hesitating only a moment before driving the thin blade into the dehydrated space where her heart would be. Just then, a glaring white light pulsed outward from the metal, and he blinked rapidly in response to the temporary blindness. When his vision cleared, he could only stand slack-jawed and stupefied, because the weapon was gone and, where there had lain a mummified corpse only seconds earlier, there was now a flesh and blood woman. And she was breathtaking. Her hair was the color of rich honey, lips the deep red of ripened cherries, fair skin marred only by a curved scar on the back of her left hand.

"Impossible," Breda murmured behind him.

Tentatively, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, feeling an indescribable wave of energy course through the room when they touched, but it dissipated so promptly he doubted its existence. He paced backward to stand with the others and they all stared for several minutes, waiting for anything at all to happen. When those expectations were disappointed, he turned and said, befuddled, "I expected more. Havoc?"

"Yes, milord," he replied, holding the map toward the light. "Reading it again."

The small group started to move collectively to the fire, the soldier's confused mutterings in the background, and then something eerily akin to an exhalation rose behind him. The hairs on his neck stood and Roy froze, spinning slowly to see the woman's chest rise, the chilled necklace falling to shatter on the floor. Her eyes fluttered open and then she sat up quickly, simultaneously turning to sit on the edge of the pedestal, a bare leg partially revealed in the process. She held her hands out to analyze, touched the hem of her robe, and ran a thumb along the stem of the rose with a low, "This isn't right." She looked up at the four thunderstruck men, eyeing each of them suspiciously in turn. "What's happened? Where's Maes?"

Roy's gaze met her coffee-colored one and he cleared his throat, finally finding his voice as he offered a hand to help her down. "Apologies, my lady, I don't know of whom you speak."

She scrutinized them. "Is she _gone_?"

He cocked his head to the side. "Again, I'm afraid I don't..."

At that point, the entire edifice shook for the span of a few seconds, and they each instinctively reached out to maintain balance. Once the vibration stopped, the woman's lips formed a thin line, and she said, "You have no idea what you've done." She abruptly strode toward the door, waving a hand to her right, above which the shards of the necklace hovered and reformed. He followed her, wondering precisely who he'd woken, and was on the threshold of asking that very question when she again spoke. "Who told you how to find me?"

"One of the sylphen."

She glanced at him, quickening her pace to the staircase. "You're sure?"

" _Yes_. Why must everyone ask that?" He thought he saw her smirk, but could not be certain. "Forgive me, but what seems to be the problem?"

"I'm not supposed to be _alive_." She descended the stairs briskly, and he noticed that, as they walked, candles and lanterns ignited around them. "And if I'm awake, then she is as well."

"Who?" There was no response to his query, and he could only follow as she raced down the stairs and up to the massive double doors in the atrium. He drew his sword the moment he reached the landing, upon seeing the guards he'd left behind lying dead across the threshold. He was ready to stride right on through, but the woman flung an arm across his chest, and he threw up a signal to bring his men to a halt.

"I wouldn't," she said, running her hand along the door frame before placing it in the center of the opening, and he was astonished when she met resistance. With a light push, an invisible barrier undulated like a sheet hung in the breeze, distorting their view of the outside world. "Dammit." She pounded a fist against the force field and turned away, playing with the silver chain of the necklace. " _Damn_."

"Now, now...that's no way for a lady of your station to speak. Your mother taught you better."

"Chris." The blonde spun back to face the tall, smug woman that had appeared on the other side of the doorway. "You're looking rather peaked. Feeling alright?"

"No need to be rude, sorceress." The stranger gestured toward the bodies at her feet. "You know very well how I respond to impertinence."

Roy took an angry step forward, but the mysterious woman stopped him once more, saying, "Then why lock me in here? I, for one, would like to finish this."

"I have my reasons." Chris extended a hand and a dark-haired girl materialized, her neck in the woman's grasp. "It seems someone possessed your little friend. And after that idiot warlock spoiled your efforts. Have you not tired of weakness, sorceress?"

"What's your plan here, Chris? I've a feeling everyone is _dead_."

"Close, old friend, but not everyone."

The blonde indicated the doorway. "A barrier of this magnitude...you made a mistake. I'll find a way out."

"Of course you will, but I imagine you'll be in here long enough for me to handle a few things." Chris' grip tightened around her victim's throat. "Let us test just how hardy your last sylph is, shall we?"

As lightning crackled in the sky above, the woman he'd woken reached out for his sword with an expression that brooked no argument. Taking it, she muttered a few words in an unfamiliar language, rammed it into the barrier, and shouted, "Bec!"

He could tell she was throwing all her strength into tearing the curtain, and he gripped the weapon above the cross guard, pulling fiercely downward. Together they were only able to open a half-foot slit, but it was enough and, with a few more words uttered by the sorceress, blue light jettisoned from the end of the blade, crawling along Chris' arm. The sylph immediately vanished, a soft whistle the only sign she passed through the blockade until she again manifested as a human beside them.

When Roy tore the weapon free, the opening swiftly shrank to nothing, and the blonde gave the visitor a smirk. "You'd best get on with your diabolical plan. I'll be out _soon_."

Chris had no sooner disappeared in a swirl of skirts than the brunette dropped to her knees. "I apologize, your grace. I'd never have led them to you if I..." The sylph shook her head. "They caught me in my corporeal form. There was not..."

The blonde knelt with her, tilting the other woman's head upward to meet her eyes. "Rebecca," she quietly interrupted. " _Why_ am I still here?"

Her visage saddened. "It was Maes. He interfered and...and certain things didn't go to plan. The spell put you both into a deep sleep. I don't know how the evil one got here so soon. She was hidden in the Southern Kingdom."

"I'm sure whoever organized this reunion brought her here thinking we'd kill each other." They stood, and she asked, "Where is he?"

"His old rooms, my lady."

"Disperse, Bec. Look for weaknesses in the boundary."

As the sorceress stepped toward the stairs, Roy raised his sword to bar her path. "Forgive the appearance of aggression, but someone will explain to me this instant what's going on. I was told my mother could be healed, and she has little time left."

Her only reaction was to calmly eye the weapon, and then him. "All the more reason to find a way out. To that end, I need your men to collect all the gold in the palace. Every necklace, ring, and gilt frame." The sorceress tried to pass but he did not budge, and his men surrounded her as well, drawing their blades. "There's no need for this gentlemen. I'm not the threat." When he and his men remained stationary, she flicked her wrist and their swords flew from their hands, becoming embedded in the stone wall. "If you'll excuse me."

Without another word the woman breezed by him, the sylph again dematerialized, and he was left with his men, staring idiotically at his empty hand. Yanking his sword from the wall in frustration, he started for the staircase and said, "Do as the woman asked, gather the gold. I'll find out what the _hell_ is happening."

* * *

Riza left the men behind, traversing well-known halls and trying to organize the many thoughts that vied for her attention. She was foremost bemused, both by this turn of events and the absurdly quiet castle around her, devoid of all the usual sounds of human life. That, coupled with the unfamiliar coat of arms worn by the soldiers, forced her to question the circumstances surrounding her reawakening, and made her uneasily contemplate what she would find in her friend's apartments. Though, she had a hunch.

At the same time the young man's kiss lingered, her lips still tingling from the enchantment his touch had freed. In her distraction she grazed two fingers over her mouth, wondering at the continued sensation, which should have subsided. From his kind, albeit mournful, aura she knew his intentions were noble, and that he had no prior knowledge of the trouble he'd found. Despite all that, she could not fend off the sliver of anger winding around her gut at the fact that, aware or not, in waking her he'd also freed Chris.

Her face fell when she strode into Hughes' old bedroom, pacing slowly closer to the statue that bore his exact likeness. Running fingertips over the marble to feel the cuneiform etched on its surface, her suspicions were confirmed: he was dead. The symbols themselves converted what would normally be an unexceptional statue into a _vanita_ , a simple enchantment that often served as a practitioner's way of leaving a final message in anticipation of his or her demise.

Riza placed a hand on his chest, fingers splayed, and the area surrounding it glowed gold as she activated the spell. Thin cracks formed in the stone, branching out from where she touched and spreading to cover his entire form like myriad delicate spider webs. She then stepped back to wait, and his voice soon filled the room.

"I know you're stunned, to say the least." He said it with a little chuckle, and a muted smile sprung onto her lips. "I also know you'll be angry with me, but I couldn't let you sacrifice yourself. Not when I knew the answer was out there somewhere, that we just needed the time to find it." He paused, and she could practically see him rubbing a hand over his jaw, as he often did when thoughtful. The mental image caused the pressure behind her eyes to build. "You're no doubt chiding me right now. I know it was a risk, and that it will all once again rest on your shoulders. For that I'm sorry but, in truth, there's not a damn thing you can do about it." She released a wry laugh at that, wiping away a tear hovering over her cheek. "Still, there _is_ good news. Because of you we've had a lifetime to learn, free from the constant threat of that hag, and we _found a way_. The sword is the key, you'll know what to do." There came another moment of hesitation, and then, "Goodbye."

"Goodbye," she whispered. The statue collapsed into many thousands of pieces, but she continued to stare ahead until a handkerchief appeared in her peripheral vision, at which point she realized one of her unknown rescuers stood beside her. "Thank you." She took it and, rather than use it, closely examined the coat of arms embroidered in one corner. In the center was an elaborately stitched gold 'M,' flanked by a lion and a dragon, with laurel leaves stretching across the bottom. Inhaling apprehensively, she asked, "What year is it?"

He was handsome, with piercing dark eyes, and his brow drew together at the query. "1463."

"Ninety-seven years," she breathed in disbelief, scanning the remnants of her friend's _vanita_ while fighting to rein in her emotions.

"Might I inquire after your name?" When she looked over sharply, he added, "You seem surprised."

"I was most frequently addressed as 'sorceress' or 'your grace.' No one ever asked my name."

"I'm sorry to hear that. It seems people suffered from a frightful lack of manners ninety-seven years ago."

Her mouth curved at his effort to break the proverbial ice. "Please forgive my own discourtesy. I should've introduced myself before." With a slight inclination of her head, she said, "Riza Hawkeye. I was once High Sorceress of the Kingdoms. However, something tells me that position no longer exists."

He took her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles. "Roy Mustang, Marquis of the Westlands, your grace."

"The Westlands?" She attempted to return his handkerchief but he waved it away, wordlessly telling her to keep it.

"You may know it as the Western Kingdom. Amestris was unified just over ninety-years ago."

"I see," came her somewhat distracted reply, her mind already occupied with working out how that unification might have come to pass. However, the fragments on the floor soon brought her back to reality and, pushing such relatively pointless musings aside, she turned to face him. "And why did the Marquis of the Westlands come so far to wake me?"

"The sylph...the woman you called Rebecca, though I suppose she was possessed...she claimed that by freeing you I could rescue my mother. She's ill, and we've exhausted every option." Lord Mustang knelt to pick up a few shards of the statue. "I wasn't sure how she could possibly be healed until I saw what you can do."

Her irritation twinged at the thought that, even after almost a century of sleep, she'd been sought only for the service she could provide, but she attempted to remind herself that the man was trying to save a loved one. "First we must deal with Chris, then I can see to your mother." She swept out of the room, taking the route back to her quarters, and the young man was soon at her side. "I assume you searched the castle. Did you find a sword?"

"We did." Mustang came to a sudden stop in the middle of the hall.

She turned after a few steps, upon realizing he was refusing to continue. "And?"

"And before anything else happens, I'd like answers."

Riza paced toward him until she stood mere inches away. "You've seen a fraction of my abilities and you still wish to play this game? Perhaps I'm feeling a bit short-tempered. I might prefer to kill you all and be done."

He shook his head, an all-too-wise grin breaking onto his features. "I doubt it. In my experience, an individual willing to sacrifice herself to combat a threat doesn't go around murdering strangers."

"Astute and not easily intimidated. Qualities I respect." The corners of her mouth inched upward once more. "You should add 'eavesdropper' to your title, my lord."

He laughed quietly. "I'll consider it."

"Fine, follow me." She started down the hall once more. "I need to change."

"Can you not just snap your fingers?"

Her expression was amused. "One does not waste sorcery on the mundane, Lord Mustang." Riza strolled into her rooms, loosening the tie on the robe and opening her wardrobe, pleased to find there was still clothing inside. She selected a square-necked plum gown accented with lavender and silver, tossing it on the bed while shooting the gentleman a look that asked him to face the other way. "Chris was First Sorceress of the Eastern Kingdom, until the day she began systematically murdering sovereigns, along with their heirs and closest advisers. She'd already thrown three nations into chaos before we fully understood what was going on, at which point the King of the North, my father, and I made plans to meet with the other ruling families."

"Strategically speaking that was unwise, gathering the remaining leaders in one place."

"True," she agreed. "Which is why we didn't, we used said plans to lure Chris here. She'd stolen the power of a few sylphen to increase her strength, but I'd developed a risky enchantment that could take her powers permanently."

"And it would have taken your life, but this Maes altered it somehow." He paused in thought. "He was your husband?"

"No, no." Riza chuckled as she joined him fully dressed at the fire, tying off the laces at her side and pulling her hair over one shoulder to plait it. "Maes Hughes was a close friend, and one of the sorcerers that served the King of the North. He was very well-known. Surely one of the practitioners that resides with your family has mentioned him."

"None live with us, they're all but extinct. The only one we know is Bradley, the King's Sorcerer, and he's said that many of his kind were killed in battle a hundred years ago." When her shoulders fell, he spoke again. "This cannot be easy for you, waking in a changed world."

"And I haven't even left home yet," she said with a wry grin, and then her tone turned serious. "When you say Bradley, do you mean _Halden_ Bradley?"

"Yes..." He observed her uncertainly.

"I have good news, Lord Mustang. We're leaving very soon. I've an idea what Chris is up to." When his gaze remained perplexed, she added, "What's that phrase...hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?"

He gave a slow nod. "He led her into your trap, then."

"Yes, _and_ he was her lover. I'd imagine she loathes the man." She paused, commenting to herself, "He must have used some dark enchantment to stay alive this long."

He straightened tensely. "The man she hates is at my home, with my _family_. He was sent to try to heal my mother but was unsuccessful."

"Then it's time for us to escape." Riza stole a last look at her one-time home and strode into the hall without another backward glance. "You have the sword?"

"Yes. It was the only weapon in the castle."

"Excellent." They reached the first floor shortly thereafter, where an ample pile of gold already awaited them, along with Mustang's men. "I recommend you prepare to leave. This won't take long."

"We're ready. We didn't bring much, not having anticipated that an enchantress with a vendetta would lock us in."

"Very well." Eyes roving the cavernous room itself, she said, "Bec."

There was a rush of air to her left, followed by her friend's voice. "There are very few gaps, your grace. The first is one story above and several feet to the left of this door, another is right atop the east tower, and the third is outside the King's chambers."

"Thank you." Riza stretched a hand over the gold wares stacked on the floor, holding an image of the palace's layout in her mind, and watched the items break down until a golden cloud swirled in the air. It coruscated in the torchlight, shifting and eddying until she sent it toward the door, where it burrowed between the barrier and the castle walls. She walked forward and placed her hand close enough to the force field that she could feel the energy emanating from it. Satisfied that the precious metal had exploited the weaknesses in the spell, she looked on as the barricade dwindled away into nothing more than a gold-flecked dust that was carried away by a nonexistent breeze. They were free.

To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you liked the chapter, and have a good one!


	3. The Lost Sorceress - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy Mustang is willing to do anything to save his mother, even if it means chasing a legend that may not exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Here is the second half of The Lost Sorceress...I hope you enjoy it! :)
> 
> AN: (09/01/19) Updated with some edits/corrections - no changes to plot.

The Northlands – 1463

The sun had set by the time their party stopped to rest for the evening and, perched where the road crested a hill, Riza could just make out the silhouette of the palace. There was a soft, silver glow where moonlight came into direct contact with the white walls, and the sight was somehow bright and melancholy at once. It would vanish soon, thanks to the spell that concealed it, but she knew the image would not be so easily banished from her mind.

Her father had been a trusted adviser to the Northern King and, as such, that castle served as the setting for many pleasant memories. She'd grown up there, learned to read and write in the King's library, and even made her first forays into sorcery in her mother's private sitting room. Now that she'd left, and seen first-hand the dolefully unrecognizable terrain in the surrounding area, she feared that the once welcoming place would become little more than a cenotaph for the life she lost. Save for one effervescent sylph, everyone she'd cared for was gone and, in truth, she'd never felt so isolated.

Leaning back against a tree, she took a bite of buttered bread and eyed the large tome to her left that idly flipped through its own pages. It was her _indivium_ , known to most in her time as a spell book, though it housed much more than simple enchantments or incantations. If she was going to face Chris yet again, she wanted to be certain that she'd missed nothing, that any weapon she'd ever devised was at her fingertips.

Across the small campsite Becca teased the man called Havoc, it being one of the woman's favorite pastimes to toy with younger men. The soldier was searching for his case of tobacco in the brush along the road, and the sylph used a subtle breeze to keep it hidden. The other men merely laughed, preferring the entertainment to letting their friend in on the secret, though they frequently interrupted the mirth to hazard random guesses at the ladies' ages.

"Nineteen," Breda suddenly declared, watching her with the narrowed eyes of a man who suspected he'd found his mark.

"No, no, you're not even close." Fuery thought hard for a moment. " _Twenty-seven_."

Riza smiled. "Wrong again, to both."

"You and that book," Becca interjected in amusement, giving up her game to take a seat beside the blonde. "Leafing through it even when you know the contents inside and out."

"I was only looking for a little inspiration."

"Or a little familiarity."

"Perchance." She canted her head to one side and refreshed her tea. "The world feels...different. I'm not sure what I'll find."

"The imbalance Chris created by taking the sylphen was never corrected. That's likely part of what you feel."

"A side effect of Maes' addition to my spell, I imagine." Taking a thoughtful sip of tea, she noted her friend's apprehension. "What is it you want to say, Bec? I can tell there's something else."

"Riza..." The other woman released a heavy exhalation. "Bradley not only killed the other practitioners, he was rounding up children that showed any signs of potential. I've tried to protect them, but without my sisters, I was limited."

"Thank you for doing what you could." Riza took her hand. "I _will_ fix this."

It was quite strange to her that she went to sleep in a world where her kind were commonplace, if still feared and distanced from society, and woke in a time when they hardly existed. If she were entirely honest, it was also a point of anger, because it meant that Halden Bradley had taken advantage of her absence to rid the world of all sorcerers but himself. It also occurred to her that he may have initially used Chris to remove from his path the only practitioners more powerful than himself.

She glanced down the road, to where Lord Mustang had stood for more than an hour, and then waved a couple fingers over the book, the volume spinning and shrinking in a haze of blue light until it reformed into her silver-chained necklace. Draping it around her neck, she filled one of the few cups they had, and strolled until she reached his side. "Tea?" she greeted, handing him the beverage. "You've been staring southward for some time."

"Thank you." He sipped tentatively to gauge the heat. "I suppose I'm a bit distracted, worried that by the time we arrive, it'll be too late. Is there anything you could do to slow her down?"

"Nothing that wouldn't slow our progress as well. But I _can_ help us move faster." Moving toward the horses, she took a few apples from a pack and held them in a hand, whispering _renovacritas_ with closed eyes. As she fed the first mount, she said, "Tell me about your mother."

"She started to fall ill last year. Forgetfulness, outbursts, extreme fatigue, and then it inexplicably worsened." He followed her to the next horse, rubbing the mare's neck. "She attacked me when I went to visit her, thought I was an intruder, and after that her violent tendencies only increased. As did the hallucinations." He took another drink to mask his hesitation. "Can you help her?"

"Yes." Riza finished with a rather friendly gelding, and they moved back to the center of the road. "Your mother suffers from an old hex sorcerers liked to use on their enemies, and it's nearing its completion."

"And this malady's end result?"

"Death." She glanced at him in time to catch his slow, resigned nod. "My apologies. I could've been more sensitive. I'm afraid the only reassurance I can offer is that I believe we'll reach her in time. It's not too late."

"Thank you." He gazed once more to the south. "Bradley did this, didn't he? He caused her illness, and manipulated me into waking you."

"That's my suspicion."

"At the risk of asking too personal a question..." He trailed away in thought, and she got the sense he was trying to change the subject, to keep from dwelling on his anger. "I'm just a stranger that woke you, introduced you to an essentially unfamiliar world, where everything you knew is gone. And yet you've agreed to help me. Why?"

Riza sighed, scanning the cracked and broken road. "When I accepted my position, I swore an oath to help people, and you need help." Still observing the path they would soon travel, she commented, "This used to be such a lovely road, believe it or not. Paved and well-kept as far as the eye could see."

"It's been this way during my lifetime at least, but I'd like to have seen it the way you remember. My father and I used to come this way when I was younger. This is where I learned how to survive in the wild." His head cocked to one side. "We had no idea you were hidden in an invisible castle, of course."

From the campsite, Breda shouted, "Twenty-three! _Thirty_ -three?"

Mustang grinned. "Are you ever going to tell them how old you are?"

"It's much more fun for me this way." She smiled, on impulse telling him, "I'm twenty-nine, by the way. Not counting the ninety-seven years I slept, obviously."

"And how does one become High Sorceress at such a young age? I assume it's a lofty position."

"I'm quite..." Riza was unable to finish as something simultaneously wrapped around her wrists, legs, and neck, yanking forcefully until her back slammed into a tree trunk. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see numerous wiry branches encircle her waist and weave over her chest, tightening around her neck. She could barely move, only able to gasp for shallow breaths, and after an unvoiced spell the organic wrappings began to smolder at her wrists.

Wresting his sword from its scabbard, Mustang sliced through the many boughs on either side and then tossed it aside in favor of a small dagger. With a warning utterance of 'Keep still,' he carefully worked the blade beneath the lignified limbs at her neck. When he broke through she coughed, inhaling sharply as she clung to him to keep herself upright, his hands supportively gripping her arms. Her head fell forward against his shoulder, and she was altogether too focused on catching her breath to contemplate the potential impropriety of it.

"Are you alright?" she heard him ask.

With a sharp nod and a wave of her hand, the vines on her person vanished and, jaw set in frustration, she followed the traces of the enchantment to a tree several meters from the road. Wily branches grasped for her extremities, but they burned as soon as they touched her and, after another brusque wave, the spelled tree caught fire, multicolored sparks flying as flames rose into the air. She raised a protective hand to her neck while she watched, breathing deeply to counteract the vertigo she still felt. When Mustang came up on her right, she said, voice a tad rough, "We should leave. She may have set other traps, and we don't have time for me to search for them."

Riza turned away but he stopped her, repeating more vehemently, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine, though my dignity may be a bit bruised." She shook her head. "I should have sensed it, but I was distrait."

"In that case, I'm rather proud to have been the cause of your inattention."

"I don't recall saying _that_ , exactly," she replied.

He chuckled, following her back out to the road where the rest of the startled group had gathered upon noticing the disturbance. "Riza?" the sylph asked.

"Chris left a little gift behind for us, that's all."

"We need to move," Mustang said, waving his sword at the campsite. "Pack it up."

While the other soldiers worked, she helped Roy ready the horses, throwing blankets over their backs as he checked their hooves. He grabbed the saddle for his own gelding and she stood across from him, gently pulling at the blanket to remove any bothersome wrinkles. She caught his eye over the animal's back and he turned toward the next horse with a grin, meanwhile she tightened the tack, thinking it was really a terrible idea for her to find him attractive. They made quick work of the preparations, and soon she was taking his hand and rising into the saddle behind him. Riza wrapped an arm around his waist and, as they led the way down the road, she noticed the hint of evergreen on his clothes.

* * *

A few nights later, Roy lay on the stiff ground staring up at a clear sky. The rest of the group had managed to fall asleep almost immediately, but he'd tossed and turned for more than an hour to no avail. They had been traveling at a nice clip but, given his impatience to return home, the road ahead seemed to stretch on without end, time slowing to a crawl. Fortunately, the mysterious Chris had not left them any further surprises that might impede their progress, and that fact alone made him wonder about her intentions. That she was not worried enough to try to stop them meant that she might enjoy some advantage of which he was unaware, and that possibility failed to thrill him. His only encouragement was that Riza did not appear overly concerned, though she had taken to keeping watch herself every night.

From the soft, orange-red light dancing across the trees he knew she was still awake and, deciding the warmth of a fire could lull him to sleep, he rose to his feet and trudged in that direction. Her gaze was unfocused and faraway when he sat across from her, _invidium_ laid open on the ground at her side, it's pages slowly turning. He took the liberty of pouring himself tea, which was brewed strong and spiced delicately with orange peel, the mug warming his chilled fingers while he watched the sparks flitting out of the fire. In the short time they'd spent together, he had not once seen her so lost in thought, and he wondered what had preoccupied her. She abruptly turned to read one of the book's pages, but sat pensively back after only a pair of seconds, furrowing one corner of her mouth in disappointment. It was then she looked up, smiling when she noticed him, and Roy asked, "Find something you didn't care for?"

"It's more what I didn't find."

"I've had a thought," Becca suddenly began, emerging from thin air behind the blonde and joining her at the fire. "We could reopen the academy, find new pupils. I know of an abandoned palace in excellent condition that would make a wonderful school."

"We?" The sorceress smirked, hovering a hand above the thick volume, at which point it slammed shut and morphed back into its jeweled form.

"Well, you _mostl_ _y_ _,_ but I know a few things, young lady." The sylph gestured across the flames. "Let's perform one of the tests. Perhaps Lord Mustang could be your first student."

He shook his head. "I doubt I'd be a good choice. I believe I lack the talent."

"We already know he has the potential." Riza spoke quietly and, as surprise overwhelmed his expression, added, "You woke me, did you not?"

"Yes." He felt his cheeks warm, recalling _how_ her sleep had been broken, but chose to blame it on the fire. "And what does that mean?"

"Enchantments are finicky things. They can only be ended by the sorcerer that created them, or a blood relation also capable of practicing." When he continued to watch her doubtfully, she said, "I could show you, if you like."

"I'll leave you." The sylph stood, giving the other woman an odd sort of look, and then glanced upward to the sky. "This form is becoming rather taxing."

"Until the morning then, Bec." As the sprite dispersed in a rush of air, the blonde returned her attention to him. "Well, Lord Mustang?"

"I'll try your test," he responded, moving to face her after she waved in invitation.

"May I?" When he nodded, Riza took his hands and let them rest atop hers, their palms together, his fingertips grazing her skin. Without warning he felt an energy, something between a faint vibration and mild static shock, and his hands rose approximately an inch above hers. "You feel that, yes?"

His eyebrows rose in amazement. "I do."

"Good." She repositioned their hands so that his now cradled hers. "Try to replicate what I just did."

"Going to read my palm as well?"

"Not this time," she replied, lips quirking. "Select an item or place and analyze it in minute detail. It can be anything." He nodded, trying to call forth a mental picture of his favorite book, which he happened to leave lying on his bedside table back home. It was bound in black leather, the title imprinted in silver lettering on the spine, and the edges were worn from frequent use. More silver had been worked into the cover with a deft touch and, as he tried to concentrate on every swirl of filigree, he ended up following the regal line of her cheekbone instead, or the curve of her lip. She tilted her head a fraction, possibly noticing the direction in which his focus had moved, and he saw the way shadows played over her face. Her eyes took on a copper hue in the firelight, and he was barely cognizant of the rising hairs on the back of his neck when she smiled. "Well done, Lord Mustang."

Roy then became aware of the energy once more between their palms and, with a glance downward, he breathed, "Incredible."

"You should have felt something. What was it? For some it's an emotion, an inexplicable surge of joy or sadness, for example. And for others it's a physical sensation, like warmth without fire, or vertigo without falling."

"It was that feeling one has when being watched. You know, your hair stands on end. I believe I felt it when I kissed you, but I didn't realize it at the time." He liked to think he saw her flush, but could not be sure. "What was yours?"

"Cold. When I was young I accidentally froze the library before my parents realized what was going on."

"You were discovered because you froze a _room_?"

She laughed by way of affirmation. "All the books were frosted over. My father was _very_ displeased."

"That explains the state of the castle when we found you."

Riza smiled softly. "Power sometimes has a mind of its own."

They chatted well into the night, until their shared fatigue finally asserted itself, at which point they both laid back to rest. The last thing he remembered was her, lying on her side several feet away before rolling onto her back to look up at the sky. Then, after what felt like only half a minute, he was waking into darkness, the flames already reduced to embers. Roy wiped a hand over his face, as if to push the drowse away, eyes narrowing when he realized it was a body that had snuffed out the fire. He promptly came to his feet with a hand on his knife, crouching next to the black form in the center of the campsite, which bore an undeniable resemblance to Halden Bradley. Scanning closer to the trees, he saw that the others still slept deeply, and a glance to his left told him the blonde was gone.

Cautiously, he strolled toward the horses, the forest eerily still, not even the weakest of breezes playing amongst the leaves. Farther down the dirt road he could see a lone figure approaching, but intermingled shadows made certainty difficult. He squinted, as if it would help him peer into the night, thick clouds having scuttled across the moon while he slept. Just as abruptly as he woke, the air began to pull at him from all directions and, kneeling momentarily, he extricated the palace sword from the collection of supplies.

Around him the wind's intensity rapidly increased, and the dark clouds above began to twist and writhe angrily, blocking out the few vestiges of light. Ahead, something like black lightning flowed around the newcomer's hands, only visible due to the flashes of deep purple flickering in the night. A large bolt flew toward him and he drew the sword, holding it before him and bracing himself for impact, not to mention inevitable death. Closer it raced and, just as his body tensed in anticipation, it collided with nothing, purple and black streaks spraying outward as an invisible barrier rippled from the strike.

Several more bolts struck the shield, just as ineffectually, and a woman he ultimately recognized as Chris strode closer, pressing a hand to it much like Riza had done in the castle earlier. "She's protecting you, how sweet." A momentary silence, and then, "It extends for miles in either direction. Clever, as always."

When the enchantress gazed upward to examine its height, Roy could discern a gap growing in one portion of the transparent wall. Just then a jet of brilliant, blue-white light shot through it, throwing the woman backward with such force that she fell to the ground and rolled several meters. To his right Riza appeared, throwing off her cloak, and he said, "Let me help you."

"You will, but not yet. You'll know when." She ran a couple fingers along the blade as he lowered it. "This must pierce her heart."

"Then it will." They both watched the recovering woman warily. "Do you mean to sacrifice yourself again?"

"If I must." Turning toward him, her fingertips grazed his jaw and she placed a soft kiss on his cheek that startled him considerably. "Thank you for waking me, Lord Mustang. It's been lovely."

Electricity danced along her fingers, and she'd stepped through the shield before he could suitably react, or ask her to kindly call him Roy. A bit warmer than before, he was soon forced to focus on the present, saving his balance as the wind nearly shoved him into the barrier. He felt utterly useless, only able to watch as purple-black met blue-white, sending sparks in all directions.

"I take it you didn't care for my little present," Chris said, pulling together the raindrops swirling above her head and whipping innumerable icy daggers at the blonde.

"It was certainly thoughtful." As soon as they were within a foot of Riza, the frozen blades burst into nothing more than snowflakes with an unconcerned wave. "If a bit tasteless." The ground fissured, tiny web-like cracks opening in a way that was reminiscent of her friend Hughes' statue, and out flowed lava in a thousand tiny rivulets that wound toward Chris. The enchantress tried to close or divert them, but could not reach them all, and was soon consumed, screaming, by molten rock which instantly solidified. There was a short respite, in which Roy thought the encounter could not possibly have ended, and then the rock exploded outward.

The woman leered. "You're no match for me. Not then, and not now."

"Is that so?"

Lightning flashed ominously amid the swirling clouds. "I have your friend."

He knew Riza's face fell, even if her back was to him, because her silence was followed by a retaliatory bolt of electricity from her hands. The conversation was over and, truthfully, from that moment on, the altercation progressed with an awe-inspiring rapidity. The lightning blows from each woman were consecutive and unending, icy blue meeting purple-streaked black over and over, each time with a crack louder than any thunderclap he'd ever heard. His hand wrung the leather-wrapped grip of the sword, only wondering for an instant how the others could still be sleeping.

Coupled with those energetic attacks, his very surroundings burst into a flurry of others. Actual lightning shot from the tumultuous sky, but Riza merely flicked it away to crash uselessly against the barrier, while a fog of dust rose from the ground. It swirled and thickened, forming a cyclone of dirt and pebbles that drove directly toward her enemy's mouth in an attempt to suffocate her. Electricity crackled and clashed yet again as Chris was forced to dodge, vines then flying from the trees even while black fire erupted around the blonde, licking at her legs and arms. If she was in pain, it was impossible to tell, and she simply rose into the air, blue flame tracking along the many creeping plants that reached for her.

Her breaths came fast, the only sign the effort wore on her, and this time when lightning struck from the clouds, it was aimed at the other woman. It wrapped around her wrists like chains, shining and deadly, and as the ground beneath his feet shook, he heard the blonde's voice whispered on the wind. "Soon." He paced back and forth along the barrier, absentmindedly crashing into it when Chris' shackles gave way and Riza was thrown back onto the shield with ferocity. It bowed as it caught her, and she slid to the ground, lying there in exhaustion until the other woman raised a hand to suspend her in midair.

"I tried to tell them it was a mistake naming you High Sorceress, but the council refused to listen." A sword materialized in the enchantress' free hand, emeralds glittering in the cross-guard. "That title had always gone to one of royal blood. Until _you_." She paced closer, brandishing the weapon with a smirk when her prisoner remained silent, hanging limply in the air. "It's nothing personal, my dear girl. I'm simply claiming the position for which I'm better qualified. You understand."

As she spoke, the quaking ground, which had continued like a quiet murmur, started to shake once more in earnest. And then Riza was on her feet again, her left palm on the other sorceress' forehead while she tossed the sword away with a twitch of her hand. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved, but he could not make out what she said. The wind again grew into a frenzy, and Chris attempted to free herself, but out of fresh fissures in the ground crawled a substance that was both translucent and colorfully shimmering wherever light found it, like diamond turned liquid. It bound the woman's arms, legs, and torso, and Riza hardly seemed to notice.

Around him the wind somehow strengthened further, flame burst from those same cracks in the road, the rumbling of the earth intensified, and rain came down in abrupt torrents, as though each of the sylphen wished to make known her displeasure at having been taken captive. The environmental bouts of anger continued and Chris screamed forcefully, not spuriously as before. Just then four hazy forms broke free, first gray, then red, then green and blue, rising from the witch as would puffs of steam from boiling water.

Riza teetered on her feet before falling to her knees, and Roy rushed forward, recognizing only a moment later that the barrier had dropped and Chris' diamond bonds had vanished. He was still sprinting when the ill-meaning enchantress grabbed the sword she'd conjured earlier and lunged for the blonde. His opponent raised a hand in his direction, but the force he expected to knock him backward never came. Instead, he arrived just in time to cross blades with her, blocking her weapon so it glided above Riza's head and stabbed the ground a few inches from her nose.

The woman stumbled backward, waving her hands around in increasingly agitated motions. "No...no... _NO_."

He followed and, with a powerful swing of his sword, knocked the weapon out of her hand and sent it spinning away. Behind the practitioner Becca appeared, followed by a slim sylph with auburn hair, a forest green gown, and tendrils encircling her arms like the jewels of a queen. Third came a slightly taller woman, with bright blue eyes and a vestment that was somehow flowing water, and the fourth had long, black hair plaited with a fiery red, a fog of smoke floating around the hem of her skirts. "This seems fairly personal, after all, Chris."

Her chance at escape ended by the sylphen, and her powers having disappeared, Chris spun back toward him and he ran her through. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a gasp left her as she perished, breaking into shards of midnight glass that skittered across the dirt road into the cracks that were gradually closing. He looked up to see the women had gone, but when he turned to help Riza they were already there, kneeling around her respectfully, hands held over her body. His gait slowed as he neared, and he was on the cusp of asking whether or not she still lived when the quartet began to speak softly, rhythmically.

His head turned sharply to the right at the crunch of steps, and he saw a bewildered Havoc hurrying in his direction, Fuery and a groggy Breda close behind. Sheathing the sword to demonstrate that the danger had passed, he chuckled when the blond soldier asked, staring at the women in puzzlement, "With all due respect, milord, what in all hell did we miss?"

"Quite a lot, if I'm honest." The sylphen's hands began to glow in a combination of gray, blue, black and red. "Chris is gone, most importantly."

"And we _slept_ through it?" Breda inquired dubiously.

"I've a hunch that was Lady Riza's doing." Just then the sorceress in question opened her eyes, and he passed the scabbard to Havoc, swiftly striding the few feet to help her up.

She rose more than a little laboriously, and gave him a wan, weary smile, clutching his hand more emphatically than she otherwise might. "Thank you." With a slow turn she faced the sylphen, who bowed deeply before her, a gesture which she returned before they all embraced. "You had to _force_ me awake."

"Yes, well..." the red-headed earth sylph began, her demeanor shy. "Your friend seemed concerned. We thought he'd like to see you were alive."

"And _I_ prefer not to carry you back to camp, if you don't mind," a familiar voice added.

"Thank you, Bec." There was the hint of a laugh in her tone and, raising her eyes to the once more starry sky, she returned her gaze to the four women. "Enjoy your freedom, ladies. We'll see each other again soon."

Looks were shared, and then each sylph departed, one in a cloud of smoke, another in a wisp of vapor, and the third in a flurry of scarlet finches until, lastly, Becca floated away on a breeze. Placing the sorceress' hand in the crook of his arm, Roy directed them to the camp at an easy pace. "Havoc, a fire. Breda, get the lady something to eat. Fuery, track down the horses. I think one may have gotten loose." The men responded with nods and, once they were gone, he asked, "Will you be alright?"

"With just a little rest, yes." Her voice now fully imparted her exhaustion.

"I'd like to say that was a bit reckless, but I'm not sure we know each other well enough."

Her head tilted marginally to the left as she considered that opinion. "Yes, undeniably reckless, but no less essential, some would say." She was silent for several steps. "Thank you for your assistance, Lord Mustang. If not for you she'd still be here, and I likely wouldn't."

"Call me Roy, please. And, anyway, you rendered her wholly powerless. My contribution was minimal."

Riza shook her head. "Only temporarily. I wouldn't have regained my strength in time to finish her."

He was pensive, remembering something she'd said a short time before. "You mentioned they forced you to wake."

"Force may have been a touch severe. It'd be more accurate to say they pulled me back to consciousness significantly sooner than was natural. I'm seeing double at present, to be entirely truthful."

He shot her a sideways glance. "At the risk of appearing inappropriate, I could carry you."

"No, thank you." She patted his forearm in a gesture of appreciation. "The stroll is helping."

Though her words were meant as reassurance, he could feel her leaning more heavily on his arm as they progressed, but chose not to comment. Instead he remained silent, letting the chirp of crickets accompany their walk. It was strange to think of all they'd encountered in a matter of days, and he wondered what would become of the fascinating woman at his side. He was clueless as to her intentions, and could not fathom the task of rebuilding one's life in a place that time had made foreign. The life she must have led as High Sorceress, he could only imagine, and it occurred to him that the King might even offer her the position Bradley had clearly vacated. However, he had a feeling she'd refuse and, formidable as she was, even His Majesty could brook no argument. The weight of her hand on his arm brought forth the thought that, after all this, it would be quite unpleasant to never see her again.

When they reached the fire, he helped lower her to the ground before taking a look around to verify they'd lost nothing to the intense winds. Upon his return, a kettle was boiling, Breda was cleaning a rabbit to be roasted, and Riza had already fallen asleep. He threw a light blanket over her legs and accepted a mug of tea from Havoc with a nod. They kept their hushed conversation brief that night, though he doubted she'd have woken anyway.

* * *

After two weeks of swift and grueling travel, during which Rebecca and the other sylphen visited a time or two, they finally arrived at the Mustang family's manor in the Westlands. It was a truly magnificent estate, with hundreds of acres sprawled around an elegant mansion built almost three hundred years prior. It was constructed of a light-colored brick that the years had weathered to soft shades of gray and cream. Four regal pilasters protruded from the front wall, framing the main entrance, as if to inform any guest that this was a place of power and wealth, and rows of windows glittered across the facade, stretching the full length of the building.

They cantered along the winding drive, which was lined with a variety of trees: elm, oak, maple, and birch, among others. Being much farther south than the palace that had been her resting place, and not yet set upon by autum winds, the grounds were lush, green hills rolling off into the distance. As they clattered by a pond, geese rose from its surface, flying away in droves after their serenity had been so harshly interrupted.

They stopped several yards before the entrance, and Riza removed her arm from Roy's waist to dismount, adjusting her dress. Before long he was busy giving orders to his men, as well as the servants that came out to meet them, and she strode up to a balustrade not far away, finding that the spot looked out over well-tended gardens. Hearing him stop beside her, she said, "I remember this place. It looks a bit different, but it's recognizable."

"Each man that inherits it must leave his own mark," he mused. "You've visited?"

"When Maes' sister was Duchess of the Western Kingdom, and lady of this house." Riza fought to recall for a moment. "Merthyn Hall?"

"That's right. Well-remembered."

"Thank you, but I'm afraid it's not terribly impressive. It was only a year ago for me that I was last here."

He offered her an arm. "Shall we?"

"Yes, of course." She let him lead her to the front stairs. "Forgive my distraction. You're worried about your mother and here I am staring at roses."

He shook his head. "It's quite alright."

"You're very kind," she replied with a little smile as they passed through the main doors.

"My lord," an impeccably dressed butler greeted with a bow.

"How is she?" Roy quickly asked, concern betrayed in his tone.

"Her Ladyship has been sleeping the past several days, my lord. She's hardly woken up to eat. His Lordship is out at the northern pasture and should be back soon." He eyed their dusty clothes with disapproval. "I'll have baths prepared and tea sent up."

"Thank you." His response was subdued as he led them rapidly up the stairs, and she'd felt him tense at the senior steward's admission of his mother's condition. At the landing they turned left, following a carpeted hall decorated with framed paintings and silver candelabras. As they walked, she gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, but doubted he took note of it, for soon he knocked on a door and pushed it open, revealing a luxuriously appointed suite with silk bed hangings and crushed velvet drapes. He rushed to the bedside and gripped the hand of the woman lying there, startling the wits out of a maid that had been washing the patient's face with a damp cloth. "Mother, it's Roy. Mother…. _Lenora_ …." Each word was more strained than the last.

Though Lenora Mustang was a beautiful woman, illness had made her pallor ashen and her eyes sunken. Strands of black hair were plastered to her temples from fever, and she had the look of someone who'd had a weak appetite for some time: not quite emaciated but obviously malnourished. Riza draped her cloak over the arm of a chair, filled a porcelain cup with tea and, at the same instant, Mustang jerked to his feet, with an anxious hand covering his frown. Striding toward the bed and, without really thinking, she placed a hand on his chest. "She'll be fine, Roy." She started when he took her hand, after which she met his gaze, letting her fingers slide slowly free of his.

Behind them the door started to open, and Roy excused himself with a tiny bow of the head when a distinct male voice said, "I came the second I'd heard you returned."

Tuning them out until their conversation became only a dull murmur, she put a hand over the woman's heart and shut her eyes. She could feel the illness moving furtively through her body, the way a fish darts around in sharp bursts beneath the surface of a lake. Now certain of the exact nature of the affliction, she held a hand over the teacup, uttering a few enchantments: one to counteract the hex, a second to prevent her condition worsening, another to wipe away some of the damage, and a fourth to warm the beverage.

The new voice behind her grew louder when it said, "You mean you _found_ …?" but Roy could be heard urging him to silence.

Both her hand and the cup warmed, the space between them shimmering like the air on a supremely hot summer day. When she felt it was ready, she touched a fingertip immediately above the bridge of the woman's nose, and Lenora's eyes slid open, lazily taking in the room as though she were not sure of her own location. The patient's breathing quickened, but before any outburst could result from a possible hallucination, Riza gently squeezed her wrist. "Don't be frightened, you're safe. Drink this."

Roy's mother calmed instantaneously and took the tea, sipping it politely, as would any Duchess. Finally, a glint seemed to return to her eye, and she asked, "Richard, dear, who is this? _Why_ is this room so stuffy? You know I like to have the windows opened in the morning. And Roy, what a sight you are. Why on _earth_ are you so dirty?"

There were delighted exclamations from the men, and Riza moved away as they crowded the woman's bedside in their relief. It was a heartwarming scene, as the Duke kissed his wife like he thought he'd never see her again, and Roy hugged his mother as if she'd just come back to life. Deciding the family deserved some privacy, she left the room and, upon running into the pleasant butler in the corridor, was led to a peaceful parlor in the northeastern corner of the manse. The man left, promising to have a small tray sent up, and she paced instantly to the pianoforte before the windows. She took a place on the bench, delicate fingers alighting on a few keys, but her solitude was short-lived, and she smirked at the whisper of air to her right. "What are you doing here? Is there no celebration in which you ought to be partaking? No wood nymphs with whom to frolic?"

"Wood nymphs." Becca let out a soft snort. "Cheeky little things, they were." The brunette played a few notes, a whorl of air coaxing the nearest window open: the wind sylph despised enclosed spaces. "I was awake and alone for ninety years. I dare say I missed you, Sorceress."

"Do be careful, _s_ _ylph_. You seem almost human."

"No getting carried away, now. You just got back." She tapped out another tune, one lilting and cheerful, and this time the blonde joined in. "What will you do?"

She was momentarily silent. "I don't know."

"The great Riza Hawkeye without a plan. My, my..."

"I did recently wake from a lengthy and unexpected nap, if you recall. Might I have a little time to regain my bearings?"

The other woman gave an exaggerated sigh. "Yes, I su…." She stopped mid-sentence, a smirk growing to dominate her expression. "Unless I'm mistaken, there's a handsome young man headed this way."

"With any luck it's one of the stewards. I'm famished."

"You _know_ who I mean."

"Now, Be..." Riza left off when the other woman was abruptly gone, crossing to the window where the sylph had summarily evanescenced. The quick knock on the door caused her to turn, and it swung inward to reveal Roy, closely followed by a young woman with a tray, the contents of which smelled divine. The maid gave a curtsy before leaving and, the very moment they were alone, the window at her back shut with a loud snap. When he eyed it inquisitively, she explained, "Becca has a peculiar aversion to using doorways."

"I'll keep that in mind," he chuckled, pulling a chair out for her at the table. "I fear I've been an atrocious host."

"Not at all. Even if you had, you have good reason." She poured a cup of tea, and eyed the food with a grumbling stomach. "Please don't trouble yourself over me. I imagine you'd much rather be with your mother after all this time."

"She's currently bathing, and I neither need nor want to be present for that." He rested a hand on the back of the next chair. "Thus, if you don't mind..."

"Please." Riza pushed the first cup toward him and filled another for herself, sliding the tray closer to indicate she was willing to share. "Your mother's feeling better?"

"I haven't seen her so energetic, or quite this sane, in months." He shook his head while raising the tea to his lips. "It's incredible."

"It will still take time for her to recover fully. I'd recommend keeping her on a liquid diet for another fortnight. And only short walks for the time being. The hex is gone, but it wreaked havoc on her body." She paused to stir orange blossom honey into her cup, suddenly feeling like she was babbling.

"Thank you." Roy's fingers brushed hers, seemingly incidentally. "You disappeared. I didn't get the chance to say that before."

"I didn't want to impose."

"You're far from an imposition." He caught her eye and took a forkful of veal crustade from the plate. "How were you so confident before that my mother had time?"

"A similar hex was placed on my own mother once. These things work slowly." She sipped tea to distract from the sadness of the next realization. "And now I've no idea what happened to her, or my father. Or anyone, really." The laugh that left her was more derisive than anything else. "I confess, I haven't decided what precisely to do with myself. I'm not sure where I belong here. I _could_ travel. Wherever I like now, and not to attend stuffy meetings."

She had become so lost in her own thoughts that his voice practically startled her. "Records of your parents, and your friend Hughes, may be in the Capital. Or the capital city of the Northlands."

"An excellent point." Riza set her serviette aside, thinking it might be best to simply depart, to dive headlong into the unknown. She certainly did not wish to be a burden, would not want the Mustang family to feel obligated to her in any way. "I could be on my way very quickly. If I could only borrow a horse, I can pay any..."

"Wait." He shook his head, and straightened in his seat. "I didn't mean to imply that we, that _I_ , wanted you to leave. Remember when I said you're _not_ an imposition?"

"Thank you for all you've done, but I've really put you through enough." She rose, feeling abruptly nervous but unable to determine if that stemmed from the aforementioned 'unknown,' or some other cause. "With Becca's help I can…."

"Would you like to stay for dinner tonight?" Roy interrupted, standing and pushing his chair back in one rapid motion. "And perhaps for the next month or so?"

Her mouth, which hung open in response to the unanticipated invitation, started to curve into a smile. "I'd love to." A pleased grin appeared on his face, and she took the chair he again held out for her, tearing a biscuit apart and handing him half. They spent the next hour making plans for a trip to search for records concerning her family, during which he agreed to escort her, and discussing his potential studies in sorcery. The arrival of his parents prompted introductions, followed by a walk in the garden which, for the younger pair, lasted until late afternoon. From a bench overlooking a lovely grove of rose bushes, with the young man beside her enthusiastically describing all the attractions of West City, her circumstances no longer seemed so discouraging.

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the second half of this story! Thank you for reading and have a great day!


	4. The Doctor and the Gunsmith - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! This short story is set in the early 1940s, and was actually inspired by my husband's grandparents. (The very basic premise. I took many creative liberties.) And I ended up listening to jazz, swing, and big band tunes for weeks straight while writing this. I've borrowed the FMA universe for some place/country names, but there's no alchemy in this one. I've tried to be as accurate as possible, but allow me to apologize ahead of time for any errors related to the medical field, military, or time period in general.
> 
> All that said, this is the first half of the story, and I should have the second portion posted soon. I hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> AN: (09/01/19) Updated with some edits/corrections - no changes to plot.

May 23, 1943 – Leighton, Amestris (Fifteen Miles Outside East City)

Riza Hawkeye slipped through the wooden gate as quietly as she could, holding it just right to keep the antiquated hinges from squealing. The backyard was dark save for the dim bulb glowing by the door, more helpful for attracting insects than illuminating the ground at her feet, and the black silhouette of a gigantic weeping willow loomed fifty feet away. A cricket sang in the bushes to her right, pausing when she came near and chirping with renewed energy after she passed.

In the field beyond the once-white picket fence, the season's earliest fireflies blinked, and she watched them with a little smile as she sat on the concrete stoop to remove her heavy work boots. She let out an involuntary sigh when she did, her over-worked feet crackling slightly when she set them on the paving stones, which were somehow still warm from the sunny day. Leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, she closed her eyes, enjoying for the moment the absence of machinery and gunfire in the background.

Her smile turned wry when, just seconds later, that silence was broken by the soft whine of the back door, and she looked behind, her voice taking on a mildly admonishing tone. "Roselyn Marie Havoc, why aren't you in bed?"

The young girl chewed her lip guiltily, one hand still on the door while the other clutched a stuffed elephant named Theo. "I can't sleep when you and Mama are gone."

Riza held out an arm so her niece could crawl onto her lap, and kissed the top of her head. Hair stuck out of the girl's black braid and she gently shook it loose, asking, "What's wrong, bug? Didn't Sheska tuck you in?"

"She doesn't _do_ it right. Why can't Mama stay home with me?"

"You know your mama and I have to work. We'd be here all the time if we could, baby girl, but we can't." Riza kissed the top of her hair again. "Sheska offered to help us out around the house. It was very nice of her and, if you ask me, she's the lucky one, cause she gets to spend the whole day with _you_."

"I want Daddy to come home. He reads me the princess story. I like that one."

"I'm sure your daddy will come home as soon as he can." She hugged her niece tightly. "In the meantime, can you give her another chance? For me?" Rosie nodded begrudgingly, cuddling the elephant. "That's my girl. She's trying her best. We're all trying our best. And I bet she'd read you the princess story if you ask."

"Okay." There was a pause, and then, "Can we do a nighttime snack?"

Riza could hear the grin in the girl's voice. "A _small_ one."

Roselyn hopped off her lap and picked up her boots, lugging them awkwardly into the enclosed back porch when the blonde opened the door. From there they moved into the kitchen, and the girl sat at the heavy wooden table while she moved about making peanut butter toast with a drizzle of honey. They shared a slice with a mug of chamomile tea, keeping quiet since Sheska had dozed on the couch in the next room. Rosie told her all about her day, everything from her lessons and feeding the chickens, to making breakfast for Uncle Walter when he came to tend their small garden. Finally her niece yawned, eyes beginning to droop, and Riza carried her up creaky stairs to her bedroom.

The little brunette was asleep the instant the blankets were pulled up to her shoulders, her elephant still squeezed in one arm. She did not even wake when another car door shut outside, the vehicle itself trundling back down the long drive to the road. Riza stole quietly down the staircase, running into a groggy Sheska on the landing, who said with a pat on her arm, "Dinner's in the icebox."

"Thank you. You're a life saver, you know that?"

"Believe me. You and Bec are the life savers," she began, removing her spectacles to rub at tired eyes. The young woman's father had kicked her out for becoming pregnant out of wedlock, and for refusing to marry the man of questionable integrity whom he'd paid to 'make an honest woman out of her.' They'd invited her to move in with them as soon as they learned of her situation; there was plenty of room in that monstrous farmhouse. "Night, Riz."

"Night," she said, pulling her in for a quick hug before continuing down the hall. Once more in the kitchen, she greeted its newest occupant with a "Hi there, stranger," and started rescuing dinner plates from the icebox.

Pouring herself a mug of tea and warming the one still on the table, Rebecca asked, "Rosie was up again?"

"Yes, she came and found me out back." Riza took a seat, sliding one plate across the table. "She just misses her Mama."

"I'm actually not sure who she misses more, me or her auntie Riz." Her friend's smile was fatigued, black hair falling out of a bun that had been in place for too many long hours. "All this overtime's killing me. I'm thankful for the money, and the work, but it's wearing me out."

"I have news on that front," she responded, washing down a bite of roast chicken and mashed potatoes with tea. "There's an opening in my department. One of the few remaining boys got called up, and I told my boss you know as much about guns as I do."

"Shit, Riza. Are you serious?" The brown-eyed beauty looked up from her plate with a grin, food on her fork forgotten. "That'd be _wonderful_. Everyone knows you gun and bomb girls have the highest wages, and shooting things every day would make me so happy."

"There _is_ some risk. You'd be testing firearms before they're packed and sent to the supply trains. Things happen, but you'd be able to work a little less overtime. If you want."

"Speaking of, why were you so late tonight? The truck was still warm."

"Second shift's been a little short lately and they had a bunch of pallets that needed to go out tonight. I offered to help."

"That was nice of you." Her friend took another bite. "Oh, some of the other wives are coming over tomorrow night to put together a care package. You'll be here, right?"

"I'm not sure. I just realized I may have to work." She hid her smirk by taking a drink.

" _Liar_. Tomorrow is Rosie's birthday. I know you took the day off." Rebecca stood and opened the cupboard to the left of the sink, where they kept a bottle of vodka they saved for special occasions, or for nights after especially arduous workdays. Pouring a finger each in two glasses, she resumed her seat. "Here, drink."

"You want something."

"No, come on now. Can't a girl give her friend some vodka for no reason?" She withered somewhat under Riza's stare and drank. "Alright, I _do_ want something. Will you write to one of the doctors in Jean's unit?" The blonde half-shook her head in uncertainty, but her friend continued before she could speak. " _Please_? He's not married, no girlfriend, and his closest relative is his aunt. She can't be here tomorrow, and she thought it'd be nice if he had someone else to write to. And I agree with her. She owns a business in East City, doesn't get to write often, and I just thought my kind and beautiful friend Riza would be perfect."

"Right, I'm sure every man wants to hear from a trigger-happy tomboy with a predilection for vodka." She paused to sip said liquor. "Your flattery was noted, by the way."

"Come on...please, please, please? You won't leave him to be the only soldier that doesn't get a letter in the care package, will you? Just think how sad and disappointed he'll be. He might _die_."

"Impressive. You've taken the guilt trip to new heights." She took a deep breath, watching her friend for several seconds. "Alright, I'll do it."

"Fan _tas_ tic." Becca took a slip of paper from a pocket and passed it to her. "Colonel Roy Mustang and I are very grateful. Here's how to address it."

"Why, thank you."

"Thank _you_ , Riz." Her friend deposited her already empty dish in the sink. "I'm off to bed. I want to add to my letter to Jean."

"Night, Bec." She sat contemplatively at the table for some time, before taking her tea and moving into the office at the front of the house. Retrieving a pen and paper from a drawer, she lowered herself into the chair and organized the many firearm schematics to clear off a portion of the desk. She took a pensive sip, the pen hovering over the page, and then finally wrote.

* * *

June 8, 1943 – Valcote Field Hospital (Nine Miles from the Aerugonian Border)

On a frightfully humid morning, Roy found himself enjoying his first bit of physical training in over a week, sprinting down the supply road back toward camp and putting all his frustration into the effort. They'd suffered several casualties in the past week, at least ten of the wounded that had been brought in died before they could even think about operating, and several men from the medical regiment were lost in an unexpected firefight. The field hospital was subsequently moved to a safer location, but he feared it was too little too late. Had they broken camp and moved when they ought, lives could have been saved, but waves of wounded were not always predictable.

Not only had they survived a rough few days, but he also received a message from his aunt in which she shared the news of her brother's passing, and her imminent trip to Xing to handle the funerary arrangements. The smudged and crumpled letter still sat atop the makeshift desk near his bunk, and its tidings were grim, serving as a reminder that the few family members he had left continued to vanish. He'd seen plenty of carnage in the past few months, and it seemed only just that death should take a break elsewhere. Unfortunately, that was not the way of the world.

He wished he could accompany his aunt to the funeral of her only remaining brother, but leave was nearly impossible to come by when deployed, and he'd never be granted enough days to travel to Xing and back. Instead, he could only hope that Aunt Chris made the desert crossing safely, and be selfishly disappointed that he might not hear from her again in months. In the hell around him, it was that contact with the world back home that kept him crawling out of bed each day.

Such had been his mood of late, dark and irritated, that actually being in surgery had become something of a respite. While working he could clear his mind of everything but precise incisions, bloody amputations, tissue repairs, and shrapnel extractions. Yet reality would always return, with the volley of artillery in the distance and too many soldiers lying dead, and the members of the regiment would turn to card games or pranks to get them through the unimaginable.

He finally slowed when he passed through the entrance, breathing deeply, and a few moments later heard another set of footsteps behind his own. "Jesus, Mustang. In a hurry this morning?" Havoc wheezed, walking in circles with his hands on his hips.

Roy let out a raspy chuckle. "Just needed the exercise. We haven't had the time. I was developing an impressive case of cabin fever."

"Same here, Colonel. You know, my little girl just had her sixth birthday, and that's the second one I've missed." He shook his head, looking down. "I'm missing everything stuck out here."

"You'll get back to her." After a couple more steps, he added, "And yes, before you say it again, your daughter _will_ remember you. She was five _years_ old when you left, not five months."

"Are you always such a bright goddamn ray of sunshine? Or just for your good friend Jean?"

"Always. It's what I'm known for," Roy replied as they set off toward their bunks.

"No, you're known as the pyromaniac surgeon of the MR-54."

"That happened _onc_ _e_ ," he said, and held up a hand to reinforce that point. "And it was an accident."

"Not the way I tell it," Havoc countered, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Constantly spreading great stories about me. I appreciate it." He paused. "Fair warning, my go-to story is the one about your afternoon in the latrine."

"You're an ass."

"You're welcome."

They were passing the mess hall when the soldier slowed and, with a sudden grin, said, "Things are looking up, Colonel. Mail call."

Roy followed his friend into the over-sized tent, gratefully accepting both water and coffee from Sergeant Fuery, one of the cooks. He drank greedily from the glass of water, saving the caffeine for later, and strolled over to where Havoc was prying open a wooden crate the size of those cases in which rifles were often shipped. "Your wife sent you that? She might be a saint."

"She's amazing, but much sassier than a saint. Bec was the prettiest girl in our high school. Can you believe it took _eleven_ _months_ to get her to go out with me?"

"I'm surprised she did at all."

He shrugged incredulously. "I was the quarterback. Come on."

"I'm still surprised. I remember your school's football team. It's losing streak remained unbroken for five years."

"Alright, look, that wasn't my fault..." Havoc interrupted himself when he finally flipped open the lid, jovially shouting, "Care-package day, kids! Okay...ah, Fuery's got something from his _Mom_." He tossed a small box over to the young cook, amidst the usual razzing from the other soldiers that had gathered, and then continued to hand out boxes and envelopes as he listed off names. "Jones...Parker...what looks like a bonnet for Armstrong. I don't think it'll look great. And a lovely sweater for Grande. Your wife does know it's a million degrees out here, right?" He slid a cookie tin across the table. "Some fancy cookies for Mustang...ah, here's something for Kimblee..."

"Thanks." Roy took the tin and was already cracking it open, astonished to see it was from his favorite bakery in East City, but he only made it a few feet farther before Havoc's voice stopped him.

"Hey, Colonel. You've got a letter, too."

He spun, expression baffled. "My aunt couldn't be back already."

"It's not from her." Havoc's eyes narrowed in examination of the envelope, and then he barked out a laugh. "I know who it is. This has Becca's brand of meddling written _all_ over it."

"Then who is it?" He accepted the letter and curiously perused the unrecognizable penmanship, noting that there was no name above the return address.

"You'll see."

"Thanks for the help."

"What I'm here for." The other man looked down at the next item in his hands and exclaimed, "Why do I have so many damn pictures of _cats_?! I swear if..."

His friend's voice faded as Roy strolled toward the small, dusty structure that served as his home away from home, idly smacking the letter against his leg while he walked. He'd occasionally check the handwriting, wondering despite Havoc's comment if the message might really be about his aunt, unable to completely dispel that concern. Traversing the desert was difficult, and she was not exactly young. Reminding himself it could be any number of things, many of the possibilities far from terrible, he dispelled from his mind the cynicism to which he tended and lowered himself onto his bunk.

_May 23_

_Colonel Mustang,_

_I'm sure you're surprised to receive a letter from a complete stranger, and all I can say is that Rebecca Havoc is persuasive (she uses vodka, it's extremely effective). I hope this note finds you well and, as I'm admittedly unsure of where to begin, I suppose I'll introduce myself. My name is Riza Hawkeye, and I live with three lovely ladies in an ancient farmhouse that only stands thanks to some unknown miracle. The fact that my grandfather's an excellent handyman doesn't hurt._

_I was born in East City, but I've lived here in Leighton for much of my life, except for the years I spent at Eastern Amestris University. I work at the Bradley Arms Manufacturing Plant, mainly in design and repair, but since the war started I've been testing the firearms we send to the front. It's really the best job a lady could ask for (and now the thought's crossing your mind that I might be insane – I assure you I'm not)._

_In the interest of…_

With a chuckle he lowered the page, glancing to the left when he heard someone rummaging through a bag close by. "Havoc?"

"Yeah, it's me. You have any paper? I'm out, but I need to ask my wife why she decided to adopt an entire litter of _kittens_."

"Plenty." He grabbed a small stack and handed it over when the man appeared, adding as he held up the letter, "What exactly is this?"

Havoc shrugged in amusement. "I had nothing to do with it. If I had to guess, I'd say Becca found out Aunt Chris would be out of town, decided you should get mail anyway, and talked Hawkeye into writing to you."

"So it's...what...pity mail?"

" _Holy hell_ , no. It's just a friend doing something nice for a soldier." He laughed quietly. "And once my wife makes up her mind, she doesn't take no for an answer."

"Right." He nodded somewhat uncertainly, recognizing that his gut reaction may have been a tad unfair. "I'm just a sleep-deprived ass. Ignore me."

"Will do, Colonel."

Turning back to put his feet up on the crate that functioned as his desk, he picked up where he left off reading before:

_In the interest of honesty, I should tell you I stole several of those peanut butter cookies. I know, I'm one of those horrible people that steals desserts from soldiers but, in my defense, they're phenomenal and it was a very difficult day. Rosie loved them, too, and it's mostly her fault we opened them to begin with. (I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention to Havoc that I blamed my sweet tooth on his daughter.) On a related note, how did you find that bakery? It's so well-hidden._

_Also, I heard that your aunt reached Xing safely and plans to be back in East City in two months or so. I thought you might like to know._

_To close, I'd just like to say that what you're doing is incredible. I can only imagine what life is like in a field hospital and, if you'd rather not reply, I certainly understand. However, despite my talk of being persuaded, it'd be my pleasure to continue writing. I leave the choice to you, Colonel, but either way I'll send more cookies (we really ate too many)._

_RH_

Following another mention of his sweet of choice, he reached into the tin, realizing only after reading the letter that there were fewer cookies than normal. Nevertheless, he was thankful for the reminder that home still awaited him and, if he closed his eyes, he could picture his aunt's bar, almost hear her gruffly ordering cooks and barmaids around. Those recollections may not say 'comforts of home' to most, but he'd grown up above that bar, and there were nights he had trouble sleeping without the muffled murmur of conversation one floor below. Somehow, distant explosions and gunfire did not have the same soporific effect.

He skimmed the letter once more, trying to decide how he wanted to respond. His first inclination was to go the 'Thank you, but please don't feel obligated to write a man you've never met' route, but if he were truthful, he liked the idea of having someone else to communicate with. Here he had the offer of a correspondence that could very well keep him sane, and he'd be an imbecile not to accept. He was still mulling it over when the alarm sounded, warning them that more wounded were en route, and he grabbed the cleanest scrubs he could find. Taking the other cup, he broke into his well-practiced coffee-carrying jog in the direction of the showers.

* * *

June 26, 1943 – Leighton, Amestris

The mid-afternoon sun was warm on her cheek, and Riza leaned back in the rickety chair to close her eyes and bask in it. The heat might have been oppressive, if not for the gusts that rattled the tree branches above and shook her hair mercilessly. The pages of her book fluttered wildly but she ignored them, instead listening to the energetic bark of a neighbor's dog, the rumble of a truck laboring down the road, the clink of ice in Becca's chilled tea. They were taking advantage of a rare moment of calm, with Walter having taken Rosie into town and Sheska off sketching in the woods north of the property.

"Why can't _every_ Saturday be like this?" her friend contentedly sighed, shortly following that up with, "Oh, right, because my daughter has the endless energy of a monkey and has taken over our lives."

"She bites less though, which is nice." Riza smiled, shifting to rest her feet on an adjacent chair.

The other woman chuckled. "Fortunately her little biting phase only lasted a few weeks."

"I remember it well." She held up her left hand to show the small scar she'd acquired during those weeks.

"I forgot about that. _So_ glad that's over." Becca glanced at the driveway with heavily-lidded eyes, the warmth clearly lulling her into an impromptu nap, and added, "When are they supposed to be back, anyway?"

"Soon, I'd think. Walter only had to run over to Armstrong's Feed after they stopped to see his veterinarian friend. Shouldn't be much longer."

"Those damn kittens." The brunette gave another chuckle, this one drier than the last. "I can't wait to see what Jean has to say."

"You mean he _won't_ be thrilled?"

"Probably not, but he'll come around."

"And here I thought the cat photos with little Rosie would cheer him up."

"I'm sure they did." Becca's smile took on the same worried lines that always formed when she was waiting to hear from her husband. With each day her friend's concern would intensify, wondering whether or not he was still alive and if she'd ever see him again. Whenever his response finally arrived, she'd reply and the process would repeat.

"He's fine," Riza quietly reassured, and took her hand. "Trust me. I have a sixth sense about these things."

The other woman squeezed her hand to express gratitude for the support. "You and your made-up senses. Just the other day you claimed to have one about rifles." She picked up her glass, ice cubes tinkling softly. "You can't call me them all a sixth sense, by the way. I'm beginning to wonder if numbers confuse you."

"My understanding of numbers is just fine, thank you. I have many gifts, Rebecca Havoc, and all I said was that I have a _feel_ for sniper rifles. Which is true."

"Please tell me you didn't talk about guns when you wrote to Colonel Mustang."

Riza stole a sip of iced tea. "I told him I test firearms for a living, that's all."

"Oh my god, you actually took my advice. Maybe you'll hear from him after all."

"It was completely unintentional. I meant to launch into an essay detailing the finer points of the latest Bradley hand guns, but I ran out of paper."

Becca chuckled. "You might be cracked."

"I _think_ you've got a few more screws loose than I do."

"Well, you're about six apples shy of a bushel," came the other woman's retort.

Riza shook her head, putting on a playful grimace. "Not your best insult, my friend. That was...awkward. Painful, even."

"Jean told me about it in one of his letters. It's a very popular saying in Aerugo."

"I don't think it is," she teased while flipping the book shut.

The brunette gave her a light slap. "You're just plain mean."

"Mama!" an excited voice suddenly shouted, before the old teal pick-up had even crunched to a halt in the driveway.

"Hi, baby!" Becca waved, a smile blossoming at the sight of her daughter. "Our peace is over."

"I was getting tired of you anyway."

Her friend pulled open the gate, and replied, "You're spunky today. And did I mention _mean_?"

Riza shot her grandfather an amused look when he passed with a furiously meowing crate, Rosie hot on his heels, and then lowered the tailgate so she could haul a couple bags of groceries from the bed. She deposited them in the kitchen and held the door for Becca, noticing the little girl was already trying to liberate the kittens from their wooden prison. "Shut the gate first, Rosie. Let's keep them in the backyard."

"Okay!" she shouted, sprinting away.

At the same time, Walter was climbing the steps to join them in the kitchen. "I'm making dinner tonight, ladies. How does goulash sound?"

"Ah, the Grumman family specialty," Riza rejoined, taking the first of several bundles he carried.

"Otherwise known as _the only dish he knows how to make_ ," Becca added.

"However you want to put it." He removed the items he'd need from various bags, and handed the others off to be put away. "We all know it's delicious. You know, it's a s..."

"...secret family recipe," the women finished simultaneously, in sing-song tones.

"Walter's making goulash for dinner, then," Sheska's voice abruptly concluded, preceding her appearance in the doorway by only a moment.

The newcomer sat with a tired huff while the kitchen filled with laughter, and Walter glared false daggers at them all. Riza set a glass of water in front of the young woman and opened her mouth to make a comment which was soon forgotten, as she became distracted by an oddly shaped, lumpy parcel on the table. "Grandfather, you _didn't_."

"I did. Because I'm the absolute best grandfather to ever walk the earth."

"You might be taking it a _bit_ far..." She hugged him before producing scissors to clip the brown twine holding the package together. "...but I won't argue."

"It's a blanket," Sheska announced with a touch of incredulity once the gift was unwrapped, clearly not understanding her friend's excitement.

" _What_?" Becca came to see for herself. "I expected a goddamn solid gold brick with all the fuss from Walter." There was a pause as she checked on her daughter, and then she bustled outside whilst shouting, "Rosie Marie! What do you think you're doing?!"

"It's June, you must've forgotten." Sheska's tone was very matter-of-fact. "Those are for _winter_. I'm dying of heatstroke and you want a blanket."

"First off, it's a _quilt_ , smartass." She held up a portion, with significantly more glee than one would expect from the recipient of a quilt, no matter how finely crafted or comfortable it may be. "I had a smaller one just like it when I was younger. My mom made it, but it got lost during one of my moves. This looks so similar to the original."

"I found an old picture, and asked a friend of mine if she could recreate it for my darling granddaughter's birthday. She's the best seamstress I've ever met," Walter began. "I know the colors may not be..."

"I love it," she interrupted. "It's perfect. But who's this _friend_?"

"That's none of your business. I won't have you three running her off like you did Patricia."

" _We_ didn't, Becca did," Sheska helpfully supplied.

"Horseshit," the woman herself proclaimed, making her way back into the kitchen. "Patricia scared easy, I didn't do a thing. I only posed a few harmless questions. What was she hiding? That's what you should be wondering."

"Yes, Walter, we like to thoroughly vet and shock your lady friends because we care." Riza smirked. "And I'm guessing you'd like us to care less."

"It's certainly a thought." He suddenly made an irritated noise to himself and reached into one of the bags on the counter. "It completely escaped me. The post office had letters for you three."

"I _told_ you he'd reply." Becca's self-satisfaction was immense.

"There'll be no dealing with her now." Sheska took the letter offered to her with obvious reservation, clearly thinking it was from her parents. "She'll never stop meddling."

"I don't meddle. I provide the occasional, gentle nudge when needed."

"There was no nudging when you asked me to write to the doctor. I remember manipulation, and a guilt trip..."

"Right, nudging." The brunette held up her envelope and sauntered outside. "I'll be back."

As the screen door snapped shut, Riza took her own letter and picked up the quilt. "I'll be down to help with dinner in a little while." Passing Sheska, she set a hand on the other woman's shoulder and added, "How are you?"

"Fine," was the quiet reply, as the brief letter was lowered to the table. "Just my family being my family."

"Don't pay attention to them. You'll always have a home with us."

Sheska smiled her thanks and squeezed her hand, slowly rising from the chair, a protective hand moving to her growing belly. "I think I'll lie down for a bit."

The women left the kitchen together and parted ways in the hall, Riza climbing the stairs to her room. The door closed with a light groan and she dropped onto the bed, lovingly draping a corner of the quilt atop her lap and running her fingertips over the stitches with a nostalgic grin. Her eye was then drawn by the envelope and she sliced it open, still shocked he'd written back at all.

Feeling an unexpectedly solid object in one corner, she unfolded the paper within, and out fell a thin and extremely old bronze coin. It looked to have been recently cleaned to some extent, but fine lines of dirt were caught in slim crevasses, and one face was largely flattened by age and wear, any engravings having become unidentifiable grooves. On the other side the markings were more distinct, and she could make out the shape of an octopus, as well as a few characters she was unable to understand. It was heavy in her hand despite its small size, the metal smooth beneath her fingers, and it still felt warm from the time it had spent in the back of a mail truck. Now even more curious, she turned her gaze to the letter and found it was covered in a small, tightly packed script which seemed to be the victim of that slight lack of tidiness common in the handwriting of doctors.

_June 10_

_Miss Hawkeye,_

_While it's true your letter came as quite the surprise, it was a pleasant one and, with this reply, I accept your offer of a correspondence (and do hereby forgive the theft of any baked goods). To reciprocate your introduction, my name is Roy Mustang and I'm currently a surgeon in the 54th Medical Regiment, stationed in the Southern Region (I'm not permitted to say exactly where). I studied medicine in Central City but I'm originally from East City, where I grew up above my aunt's bar. If you're ever in the city for breakfast, the cook there makes the most incredible omelettes._

_Thank you for news of my aunt, by the way. The trip across the desert is no easy jaunt. I've undertaken it myself a time or two, and I was relieved to hear she was safe. The last time I crossed we nearly ran out of water, but that still that wasn't my worst experience. My first crossing involved a scorpion finding its way into my trousers which, needless to say, was unpleasant._

_As to your being insane, I certainly doubt it, but we just 'met' and it'd be prudent to reserve judgment until I know you a little better. To jump to another topic, I'm curious to hear how you ended up in that line of work. I've never known anyone in arms manufacturing and, given my current occupation, it's a greater part of my life than I ever expected._

_And now to the coin, which I imagine you've been wondering about. Havoc informed me of your birthday and, though I know this is only our first exchange (and that now you'll think I'm insane), I didn't want to let it pass unacknowledged. So, happy birthday, or a happy belated one should this arrive late. The coin is one of several we found while digging trenches when we were first setting up camp. They were in a rusty old lock box and, according to Lt. Col. Hughes, the general surgeon who considers himself an amateur archaeologist, they're about 600 years old (so, please don't tell anyone I sent it to you)._

_Work is calling and the convoy carrying the mail is about to leave._

_Until next time,_

_RM_

_P.S. That bakery is just a few blocks from my aunt's bar, and I used to pass it every day on the way home from school. I stopped in so often they started to give me free cookies, and the peanut butter variety were always my favorite. My cousin Vanessa likes to say they were pity cookies, but I'm convinced the baker's daughter was sweet on me._

Lost in thought, Riza leaned against the headboard, alternately reading sections of the letter and examining the coin, the corners of her mouth threatening to turn upward. The Colonel's response was not precisely what she'd anticipated.

* * *

October 9, 1943 – Valcote Field Hospital

"Alright, that was the second bullet, and I repaired another perf," Roy said with a tired sigh, thunder rumbling beyond the canvas walls that served as their only protection from the elements. "Run the bowel, Havoc. I want to make sure we haven't missed anything."

"Will do, Doc," the soldier answered, grumbling incoherently, his disappointment plain. "Dammit, I've seen enough _bowel_ to last me a lifetime."

"I said the exact same thing during my residency." He paused to fish out a bullet fragment. "There was this attending. I got on his bad side and he threw me every shit job he thought was beneath him. You know..." He gestured toward the intestines in the soldier's hands. "...like boring things that can save lives."

"And you hate me because?"

"No particular reason."

"Thanks, Colonel." Havoc snorted in amusement, and soon changed the subject to air an entirely different complaint. "Good god, it's been raining for ten years."

"The weather here is all over the place," Breda agreed, as he by to drop off more gauze pads. "Hotter than shit one day and pouring buckets the next. It's ridiculous."

"The variety's kind of great, isn't it?" Hughes asked, pausing to peer with interest into the body lying open on the table.

" _No_ ," Roy replied decisively, and his was not the only voice to answer. "It's not."

"Someone's cranky." The doctor moved away to his own patient, adding, "When really we should all be thrilled, because I hear it's mystery meatloaf and jawbreakers for dinner tonight."

"Hardtack, Havoc's favorite," he commented, then muttering to himself when he finally found the minuscule tear he'd been hunting, "There you are, little bastard."

"You gotta crumble them up in the gravy," Jean began, regaling them all with his advice on the best use of the aforementioned biscuits. "That's the secret."

"Or shit, mix them with whiskey. It gets the job done, and it tastes better than what they like to call gravy here." Roy fixed the perforation, and moved on to pick a bullet fragment out of a rib. "How's that bowel looking?"

"It's about the prettiest I've ever seen. This guy had all the luck. No septicemia for him." He gave an exaggerated, dreamy sigh. "If only Becca could see me now."

"I really hope you leave all the blood and guts out of your letters home," Breda chortled.

"Are you kidding? My girl's not squeamish. She probably would've joined up as a nurse if we didn't have Rosie." He paused for a moment, and helped search the body cavity before they closed the incision. "Speaking of letters, where's the damn mail truck?"

"Can't wait for more cat photos?" Roy asked, amused.

"You laugh now, but you'll start getting them, too. Twenty says you have at least one from Hawkeye."

"You're on, but I think my chances are pretty good." He threw the final stitch, evaluating his work like the perfectionist he was. "Breda, take him to post. I'll check on him in a few hours."

"Roger that."

"I don't know, Doc," Havoc said, continuing the conversation as they removed their gowns, scrubbed, and left the surgical tent. "I _might_ know Hawkeye a little better than you. She likes to pretend she's no cuddlier than a porcupine, but she's secretly a softie."

"A porcupine? Really?"

"It was the only thing that came to mind. I'm tired, alright?"

He chuckled. "Then sleep. I can't have you killing my patients."

"Can't," the other man replied with a shake of the head. "Gotta see if the mail came yet, so I know if I'm taking your money today."

"That's deep." Roy hurried through the downpour and followed his friend into the mess hall, which had become the unofficial mail delivery venue due to it's convenient location. When they found only busy cooks and weary soldiers, they ate a quick lunch and returned to their respective bunks to rest. Once there, he found a package had been tossed onto his cot, since they'd evidently missed mail call while in surgery. His lips quirked when he saw it, and he could not ignore the lift in his spirits when he recognized the barely slanted scrawl on top, saw the now familiar way she wrote his rank and name, the letters connecting like it was all one word.

They had been exchanging letters for a few months, though the mail on his end had been a bit sporadic over the past thirty days, and he'd begun to look forward to her messages more than he'd initially expected. It was an incredible relief to read her letters, to let himself be distracted by pleasant stories far removed from blood and war. He'd quickly discovered that even the most mundane details could be encouraging.

He pulled out a knife and carefully sliced through the cord that secured the package, smiling again when he saw the cookie tin on top and glancing at the growing collection beneath his bunk. Below the tin rested a small stack of handkerchiefs, because he'd mentioned his were ragged from excessive use in that heat, and after those were a few containers of coffee and tea (the Earl Grey she'd taken to sending him was the best he'd ever tried). Finally, he found a fresh supply of dental cream and shave soap, along with two bundles of letters, some bearing evidence of having been returned.

When he emptied the first envelope something fluttered to the ground, and he bent to pick up what turned out to be a photograph. Though it was a black and white shot, he could tell it was taken in a sun-soaked yard, a white fence visible in the background with part of a tree trunk to one side. In the center was a woman with light hair, a heart-shaped face, and a brilliant smile that told him she was laughing. Her bright eyes were directed toward someone or something outside the frame, and a dark kitten was held against her chest, sniffing at her neck. The image showed the tiniest blur from motion, as though it was snapped at the very instant the kitten had pounced, and he was briefly distracted by just how gorgeous she was.

When he finally tore his eyes away, he saw the following:

_Sept. 3  
_

_Colonel,_

_I was so relieved to see your letter. We heard on the radio there'd been a large engagement and, since we never know exactly where you and Havoc are, we were worried. Becca nearly broke down the door she was so excited, and I may have written these lines before even opening the mail. Maybe. For now, I have to run downstairs, because Rosie let the kittens out back. Again._

_Sept. 4  
_

_Yesterday afternoon turned into an impromptu, late-season blackberry harvest after the marathon kitten search, which was intense. Somehow the little gray one managed to find his way to the roof of the garage. He's a brave little thing and, silly as it may sound, I've named him Lancelot. Since I'm sure you're dying to know, the rest are Peanut (Rosie's favorite), Westminster (courtesy of my grandfather), and Hania. The last was named by Sheska – she used the name she'd picked for a girl since she's convinced she's having a boy and won't need it._

_Interestingly, I received a photo of you from your cousin, and the consensus of the house is that you're quite handsome. We'll poll Walter when he comes for breakfast in the morning. I know you await his judgment with bated breath. I'd also like to thank you for asking Vanessa to send the portrait. It's nice to be able to put a face to the name, and I'll reciprocate the gesture as soon as I have one to send._

Roy's eyes moved back to her picture, which he lightly tapped against a knee, undeniably pleased that she thought him handsome. He chuckled quietly to himself when he again caught sight of the kitten, because it meant he owed Havoc money.

_Sept. 6_

_I'm very sorry to break your heart, Colonel, but grandfather said you look like a mongoose. Honestly, I don't think he's ever seen one._

_Sept. 7_

_I know I only wrote a couple lines yesterday, but I have an excellent reason. Sheska went into labor and, after over fifteen hours, a gorgeous little girl named Hania has joined the family. We're taking bets on whether or not her eye color will change, if you're interested. My money's on dark green, like her mother. Said mother is sleeping (obviously), and I'm loitering around her hospital room so she doesn't wake up alone. Since it's 3 A.M. and I have to be to work in a few hours, I thought this would be the perfect time to write._

_Let's see, to this week's village news. The sheriff's wife ran off with my neighbor's son a few days ago, which is Leighton's biggest scandal in a decade, the last being when the previous sheriff was accused of bootlegging whiskey. (He was, of course, because he sold it to half the town, but no one would testify, and they couldn't prove it, so he simply retired and moved to Central.) Also, one Mr. Raven of Raven's Grocery drunkenly drove a car through his own front window. I hear his wife was home when it happened, and was so furious she hit him over the head with a frying pan. He survived, and repairs to his house are underway. Finally, a bit of city news: Mr. Bradley is having a ridiculous statue of himself built in front of the manufacturing plant, and he actually thinks it's a great idea. Need I say more?_

_Your Aunt Chris phoned the other day to let us know she's getting settled back in East City, and that she'll write you when she's 'good and ready, dammit.' Those were her words. (She also insulted Walter, and invited herself over for dinner. I like her already.) And I should probably tell you that Vanessa now calls me every so often, with the sole intention of trying to embarrass you. She's decided to send me a photo of you covered in mud after she shoved you into a pig pen, and another of you dressed as an elf for Christmas. I can burn them for you, if you want._

_I'll have to keep writing later, Sheska's waking up._

_Goodnight_

_Sept. 9_

_It turns out I don't have very many pictures of myself. I moved around a few times before living with Walter, and what photos we had must have gotten lost. I'll enclose the only one I have from earlier this summer. Feel free to laugh at it._

He flipped the page over, finding it ludicrous that she thought he'd laugh at that picture, and silently cursing Vanessa for showing _anyone_ the damn elf photo. He also appreciated Hawkeye's offer to dispose of them, and was thinking he just might take her up on it when the next page stole his attention. It was a childlike rendering of a house with three stories, a gigantic tree to the right, and a horse on the left that was nearly as large as the building itself. There was also a boxy sketch of a truck, several stick figures in the foreground, and at the bottom there was a caption: _From Rosie. She calls you Mr. Stang, and it's adorable. Oh, and check the tin. A happy (very) early birthday to you, Colonel. I didn't want it to be late._

The set of his brow now more intrigued, he rescued the container from atop his bunk, a light shake proving that the usual cookies were absent. Inside she'd somehow managed to pack three slim mystery novels, a medical journal he'd mentioned he enjoyed and, tucked beneath the latter's cover, he found numerous crossword puzzles clipped from a popular newspaper, The East City Ledger. With another smile he reached for the next sheaf of papers covered in her writing, and it only grew when, at the end of the very last letter, she signed with her first name rather than her usual initials. He found that, for whatever reason, he liked the change.

* * *

October 21, 1943 – Leighton, Amestris

Riza opened the envelope in her truck, which still sat in front of the post office, too impatient to wait until she reached home to read the Colonel's unexpectedly quick response. Between busy lives and the nature of postal routes in war time, not to mention that his only semi-stable hospital had to move on occasion, they often sent each other small collections of letters at a time, each envelope packed full of pages. This particular parcel was uncommonly thin, her name and address scratched out in his hand, and she ran a thumb over his name in the upper left-hand corner. It held just a few sheets of paper, and she slowly unfolded the first.

_October 10_

_Riza,_

_I apologize for not writing more, I didn't have much time, but I'd just seen your picture (you remember, the one you thought I'd laugh at), and I wanted to thank you for sending it. You should know, I had to give Havoc twenty bucks because there was a kitten in it. And, maybe I'm biased, but I'm partial to Lancelot. A fan of Arthurian legend, are you?_

_Things here are much the same as they always are. The echoes of artillery are a constant, and I've spent more time in surgery this past week than I have anywhere else. Breda is now in the habit of bringing a cart of food and coffee by the surgical tent, so we can step outside for a bite whenever we can. We have to scrub again, of course, but it's worth it to keep us standing upright a while longer._

_I'll have to continue later. Duty calls._

_October 11_

_Yes, I'd really appreciate it if you burned that damn elf photo. That thing has been plaguing me since I was nine. Vanessa loves to bring it out at parties, birthdays, or just any old Thursday, to my eternal shame. In my opinion, the only thing it proves is that my aunt has a slightly sadistic sense of humor. And while you're at it, please burn that damn pig pen photo, too. Might as well rid the world of them both._

_And, a mongoose? You can tell your grandfather he looks like a dingo. Or maybe a marmot. I'm only guessing._

_I can beat Mr. Raven's story. I did grow up above a bar, after all. There were too many crazy stories to count but, for some reason, my favorite was always Old John. He was the most well-behaved regular we had, knew my aunt for a long time, but one night he got a little over-zealous and had to be cut off. Aunt Chris took his car keys and he left without a fuss, only to turn up again two hours later carrying a skunk he called Oliver. He set the animal on the bar, told us his new puppy was hungry, and proceeded to go outside and fall asleep under his truck. That's where I found him the next morning, with another skunk chewing on his jacket, and he didn't remember any of it. I'd still really like to know where he was for those two hours._

_I know I'm jumping around. I apologize. It's late and I'm half-asleep._

_Goodnight_

She shifted the pages around to read the next letter, but a smaller sheet caught her attention and she slid it free. Her brow wrinkled as she picked it up, and she was surprised to find it contained only two words:

_You're beautiful._

A smile bloomed on her face, her cheeks felt suddenly warm in spite of the day's chill, and she read those two words many times over.

To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you liked the first half of the story, and have a good one!


	5. The Doctor and the Gunsmith - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope you enjoy the second half :)
> 
> AN: (09/01/19) Updated with a few edits/corrections - no changes to plot.

December 23, 1943 – Leighton, Amestris

Snow fell languidly outside, and Riza hummed along to the big band tune on the radio while she stirred the evening's second batch of cookie dough. Rosie stood across the counter, her ever-dutiful assistant, and they made faces at each other while the girl packed sweets into containers. To prepare for the holiday gathering the following day, they'd spent the afternoon making oat muffins and orange drop cookies, desserts which lent themselves well to a time of enforced rations. Their private indulgence for Christmas day would be the molasses cookies currently in progress, which required a bit more sugar, but had always been her and Becca's favorites.

The next song to come on was a jazz number of which she was especially fond, and she set down the bowl in favor of twirling little Rosie around the kitchen. Her niece's arm latched around her neck, and they danced down the hall, circling around a surprised Sheska before passing through to the sitting room where Walter was helping Becca rearrange furniture to better accommodate their future guests. Returning the giggling girl to the chair on which she'd been standing, Riza resumed her stirring and teased, "Back to work, troublemaker."

Becca appeared and bent to kiss her daughter's cheek. "You wouldn't be distracting your auntie, now would you?"

" _No_ , Mama," she replied, with an adorably earnest shake of the head.

"We've been here the whole time," the blonde added, with a wink to her accomplice.

"Because Auntie Riz here _promised_ me molasses cookies."

Rosie shrieked gleefully when her mother tickled her side, running from the room like a bat out of hell and pounding up the stairs to escape. It was miraculous that Riza could hear the knocking above the ruckus and, wiping her floured hands with a towel on her way to the foyer, she opened the front door to wave the newcomer inside. "Mrs. Fuery, come in. I'm Riza, we spoke on the phone."

"Thank you," the older woman said with a pleasant smile, watching her with bright hazel eyes. "Call me Lucille, please." She wore a crisp coat of steely wool over a mauve dress, and spectacles were pushed up into her gray locks for safe-keeping. Kain Fuery was a member of the MR-54 and, in one of his letters, Roy had disclosed that the young soldier's mother would be alone for the holiday, as she had no other family. Riza had called almost immediately to invite her over. "I do hope I'm not inconveniencing you, but I could only get a ticket for this evening's train."

"Not at all. We're so glad you could come." She took the guest's bag, and led her along the first floor hall. "I'm sorry we didn't know. I would've picked you up at the station. Please don't tell me you _walk_ _ed_ all this way."

"Goodness, no. I was about to call when your neighbor offered to give me a ride."

"Oh, Mr. Nielsen. That was kind of him." Flipping on the light, she placed the bag on a chair and waved a hand around the space. "This is the guest room, that's the bathroom across the hall, and..." She paused at another playful shriek from upstairs, and smirked. "Rosie and her mom are in the middle of a chase. Anyway, please make yourself at home."

"Thank you for having me." Lucille pressed her hand. "I can't say I was looking forward to Christmas before you called. It's my first with him deployed."

"We understand. Believe me." Riza started back toward the entryway, pausing as Rosie came careening down the stairs. "Honestly, I think that's why Bec decided to host the families this year...the distraction." A few quick introductions were made after that, and then she returned to the kitchen, checking the dough and preparing one of the trays. "Where's my dessert girl? We still have some cookies that need put away."

"I'm here, Auntie." Rosie climbed up on the chair and cast a surreptitious look toward the sitting room, where Lucille was becoming acquainted with the extremely friendly Hania. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she said, "Mrs. Lucy _smells_ pretty. Like Grandma Havoc."

"She _does_."

"If we do an early present tonight, can I give her one?"

"Yes, I think she'd like that," Riza replied, dropping batter by the spoonful onto a baking sheet.

"...just got them the other day," Becca was saying as she walked by with Sheska and Mrs. Fuery in tow. "Apparently they got their hands on a camera while decorating the mess tent." The brunette shuffled through some papers on the table, producing a pile of black and white photos she'd developed from the film her husband sent. "And I hope you decided to stay for New Year's, too. We just relax at home, listen to the radio. Nothing exciting, but it's nice."

The blonde slid the cookie sheet into the oven and glanced at the clock to note the time, moving to peer over Lucille's shoulder at the photos. There were several of soldiers she did not recognize playing cards, and then a nice shot of Kain sporting a Santa hat and hanging a paper chain on the wall. About a quarter of the way through the collection, they came upon a picture of Havoc with paper stars stuck all over his face, at which point Becca chuckled. "And that's _Jean_."

"Always an adult, your husband," Riza joked, and made her way to the oven after once more checking the clock. With the cookies set aside to cool, she busied herself with cleaning up the baking mess and returning various ingredients to their proper place.

By that time, Rosie had disappeared into the sitting room with Walter to play with the cats, and she was wiping off the counter when she heard Lucille murmur, "I'm not sure who _that_ is. Oh, Riza, _this_ must be your Colonel. He's a handsome one, isn't he? Kain's told me about him. Sounds like a nice young man."

"Yeah, Riz," Becca began, giving her the amused smirk she saved for just such occasions. "Come take a look at your Colonel."

She narrowed her eyes at the brunette as she skirted the counter, giving her friend a light slap on the shoulder with one hand and reaching for the image with the other. It showed Jean flanked by Roy and a man she recognized from descriptions only, each with a plain mug in hand. Despite everything they were grinning, and looked to have recently been in surgery judging by their attire. She could not stop the slight curve of her lips, eyes drawn to the dark-haired gentleman on the left, but she hastily snapped herself out of it and said, "The one on the right is Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, a general surgeon from Central. His wife and daughter will be here tomorrow, too."

They perused the photos until they were joined by Walter, and then a card game broke out that lasted until well after Rosie and Hania were put to bed. It was late when Riza finally pushed open the door of her bedroom, and her head tilted in surprise upon finding a small package resting atop the quilt. Patting her arm as she passed, Becca told her, "I knew you weren't going to wait until Christmas to read your Colonel's letter. That's the gift that goes with it." She paused in front of her own room. "Don't worry, I'm not waiting to read Jean's either. Patience is overrated."

Voice quiet, she said, "I don't think we can call him _my_ Colonel."

The other woman nodded. "Oh, I think we can."

Leaving her friend with a shake of the head, she readied herself for bed, all the while eyeing the package and accompanying letter with some trepidation. From a pocket she produced the picture they'd looked at earlier, and set it on her desk near the only other image of Mustang she had. The first depicted him with his aunt Chris and cousin Vanessa in front of the bar, smirking at the camera like there was a joke he was keeping to himself. And it was nice, certainly, but she found herself drawn to the most recent addition. Maybe it was the curve of his mouth, or the tired set of his eyes, but it was in _that_ photo she seemed to truly see the man to whom she wrote. The overworked and, perhaps, slightly disillusioned doctor trying to survive and save as many lives as he could.

Taking the letter from the desktop, she gave the cat on her bed a scratch and burrowed under the covers to read it, still feeling inexplicably apprehensive.

_December 9_

_Riza,_

_I'm sending this note insanely early in hopes it'll reach you in time. To make sure your gift remained a surprise, I enlisted the help of my aunt and Mrs. Havoc - please forgive the secrecy. And I know you told me not to go to any trouble, but I didn't listen._

_Merry Christmas,_

_Roy_

Though the letter was brief, it made her smile, and she pulled the box onto her lap to tear it open. When she peeled back the packing paper her mouth dropped open, because folded neatly inside was a scarf of deep blue silk, embroidered prettily with threads of cream, silver, sky blue, and a burnished shade of gold. The corners of her lips tugging further upward, she let the fabric spill over her fingers and glide silently onto the bed, eyes following the designs. The phrase _your Colonel_ invaded her thoughts, and she glanced at the photo on her writing desk, a nervous little thrill hurtling through her.

Pulling the scarf with her, she climbed out of bed and let herself into the room across the hall, leaning against the inside of that door with a soft exhalation. Sheets rustled faintly, and then Becca asked, "Something wrong?"

"I'm in trouble."

The other woman let out a quiet chortle. "I could've told you that." As Riza lay down beside her, she added, "If it helps, I'm in trouble, too."

"Do explain."

"I _miss_ Jean. And I'm very seriously considering kidnapping him, but I have a feeling the military would frown on that. I'd probably end up in prison, and _that's_ no good because none of you can survive without me."

"We could abduct your husband. How hard can it be?" She shrugged thoughtfully, running the scarf between her fingers. "I'm thinking we have Walter take Rosie to Xing ahead of time so they'll be safe. And we'd book our passage under assumed names, of course. Because we'll be fugitives."

"Good ideas. _This_ is why you're my partner in crime," her friend replied, fluffing a pillow and turning on her side. "And then really all we need is some rope, maybe a tranquilizer or two, and a car with a large luggage compartment." She was silent for an instant. "You know, Mrs. Forster's old rust-bucket has a nice-sized trunk. We'd probably even have room for _your Colonel_."

"Hush, you."

The pair were silent for several minutes, until Becca whispered, "He'll make it, right?"

Riza reached over to take the brunette's hand. "That man chased you for a solid year. It'll take more than this war to keep Jean Havoc from coming back to you."

"It's strange how you can always make me feel better."

"It's a gift. Speaking of my many talents, I have about ten pages ready for the Colonel on the evolution of the bolt-action rifle. Care to proofread it for me?"

Becca gave a little snort. "I refuse." She then made a noise that was somewhere between vexed sigh and agonized groan. "Good god. _W_ _hy_ did I invite all these people over tomorrow?"

"To give Rosie as normal a Christmas as possible. Damn you and your motherly ways."

"I know." There was more rustling, and the clock scraped across the bedside table as her friend tried to read its face in the dark. "How do you feel about vodka and 2 A.M. meal prep?"

"They're only my two favorite things in the _whole_ _world_."

* * *

December 29, 1943 – Valcote Field Hospital

After spending several hours in surgery, and yet another checking on his post-ops, Roy finally ducked out of the recovery ward to take advantage of a few spare seconds of freedom. Once outdoors he let loose a weighty sigh, the air pleasantly cool but not nearly cold enough to give him the jolt of energy he craved. Swiping a hand over his head to remove the surgical cap still perched there, he raised the other to massage the stubborn and painful knot that had recently taken up residence in his neck, pacing around one corner of the structure until he found the smattering of chairs along the wall.

He sat ponderously, limbs protesting the change after standing for so long and, as if on schedule, the camp's stray plodded toward him, cold nose investigating his palms for treats. Scratching the mutt behind the ears, he lamented, "I don't have anything for you today, girl. I'm sorry." Seemingly in a forgiving mood, the animal plopped down at his feet and Roy slumped lazily as his fatigue asserted its presence. A truck momentarily distracted him, but only long enough for him to wonder what the hell kind of delivery they were getting at 0300.

Stars glittered in the clear sky above, the sight familiar, a reminder of home, and it was almost enough to make him forget where he was. Almost. Even if he'd managed to become lost to nostalgia, the omnipresent echoes of mortar fire would have quickly pulled him back. And to top it off those explosions seemed closer, which made him tense. It was times like that he felt doubly fortunate to have been assigned to the field hospital, where they were lucky enough to enjoy some comforts, and more regular news from home.

Home. It was the inevitable topic of conversation over the past weeks, with soldiers reminiscing about their mother's apple pie or their great-grandmother's unparalleled stuffing. Hughes could wax poetic for hours on his daughter's letter to Santa and his wife's eggnog, which could supposedly make a grown man weep. (For his part, Roy had never tasted an eggnog that good in his life, and thoroughly doubted its existence.) Meanwhile, Jean would turn glassy-eyed when talking about the evening the Havocs would spend decorating the tree whilst Hawkeye made gumbo. It was an interesting tradition, and one he'd made a mental note to inquire after in his next letter, because no one had ever heard of Christmas _gumbo._

Roy's family of three, on the other hand, had never been much for holiday celebrations. They hosted a dinner in the bar on December 25th each year, but it was less for Christmas and more for lonely patrons that had nowhere else to spend the day. It was a slightly melancholy tradition, perhaps, but one in which he'd been happy to participate. Those patrons deserved to feel welcome somewhere. Thus, it was not the latter half of December itself that intensified his feelings of loneliness and homesickness, but rather the blonde that had monopolized his thoughts of late.

He'd received no word from her that month and, as it turned out, the absence of her correspondence had made him realize how fully he'd come to rely on it. He never _expected_ to receive a note to mark the occasion, because he understood that her life extended far beyond writing to him. He'd simply _hoped_ and, though he disliked admitting it, his disappointment grew with each week that came and went without a message from Hawkeye. He tried to remind himself that, ostensibly, they were still just two people carrying on a casual correspondence, but his potentially foolish hopes often betrayed him.

When the dog stirred he looked over to see Hughes ambling in his direction, and the cup of coffee that soon materialized in his hand perked him up by aroma alone. "Thanks."

"It's not that fancy shit your lady friend sends, but you'll survive," Maes replied, taking the chair to his right.

Roy sipped, and steam escaped his nose when he chuckled. "I'm shocked you didn't take the opportunity to snoop around under the guise of looking for my _fancy coffee_. I bet you're the type that sifts through someone's mail if they leave it sitting out."

"Me? Surely not."

"You're the nosiest guy in the whole damn camp, Hughes."

He shrugged. "I was a reporter in another life. Old habits die hard. And I'd rather write to my wife about people, she doesn't need to hear about the gore."

"Fair enough." He watched the black liquid idly swirl around the mug. "Propeller guy's alive, by the way. They'll probably court martial him for what he did to his partner, but he's alive."

"That patient was writhing in pain and drugged half out of his mind," Maes began, knocking back his own mug. "How the hell could you tell he was lying about what happened to his friend?"

"I've always been good at reading people." It was his turn to shrug and he took another sip, glad the brew was strong. "It's why the other officers no longer invite me to play cards."

"They don't like losing. Strange."

"I know." He smirked into his cup, and then his tone turned wry. "But it's not like that particular talent does me any good with letters. I never know what she's thinking."

"Ahh.." Hughes exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "We're talking about the woman with excellent taste in coffee, now."

"We are. And I'm sure I'll regret telling you this..." Roy shook his head in disbelief at what he was about to say. "...I miss someone I've never actually met. It sounds ridiculous, and I think it makes me almost as crazy as you. But you still hold the record."

"I disagree. I'm not the one that's blown anything up."

"You cause one little explosion and suddenly that's all anyone remembers." He paused when the dog again nuzzled his hand to ask for attention. "The patient lit the disturbingly short fuse on a fucking stick of dynamite. What was I supposed to do, hold on to it?"

"No, but throwing it into the latrines may not have been the best idea."

"Yes, that could've gone better." He snorted. "I was aiming for Hakuro's truck, but the bastard drove away."

Hughes chuckled appreciatively, coaxing the dog to visit him with a strip of jerky, and the two men shared a coffee-laden silence while the stray moved between them looking to be further spoiled. The night was unusually quiet, and the unwelcome thought occurred that it was the calm before an as yet unseen storm. Finally, Maes said, "It's not ridiculous." Some impulse led Roy to slide her picture from his wallet, and other man added, "That's her? Miss Hawkeye's a _looker_."

"I noticed." Eyeing the photo, he said, "Before she sent me this, I worried I was writing to Havoc's grandmother."

"Myrtle Havoc's too good for you, Doc," Jean retorted, tossing mystery objects at each man and following it up with the belated warning, "Incoming."

Roy looked up just in time to catch the box that had been lobbed in his direction. "What's this?"

"Mail came with our latest shipment of armored cows and dog food. Arrived a few days late, but it came." Havoc slouched in another seat. "They went to a different field hospital by mistake."

"Jean, remind me to stab you accidentally in surgery one of these days," Roy abruptly declared, pulling items from the package while endeavoring to ignore the immediate improvement in his mood upon seeing her handwriting on the box.

"What the hell did I do?"

"You keep telling your wife I like these damn candy bars..." He started throwing them at the other man one by one. "...so she'll send _more_."

"I know," Havoc cackled. "I've got Fuery's mom sending them, too."

Roy heard Hughes make a joke about the blond soldier's candy obsession, but he was too distracted by the polished wooden box nestled among the wrappings to truly pay attention. It had a dark finish that he could not identify in the dim light, and his jaw fell slack when he opened it, because in the velvet-lined interior rested an expertly crafted folding knife that he recognized instantly. "Holy shit. It's a Curtis J977 tactical knife."

"Not possible," Hughes replied. "I looked into getting one. There's a four year waiting list."

"No, it definitely is." He lifted the knife and it was comfortably heavy, the metal just barely cold against his fingertips. When he tripped the release the blade flipped out fluidly, glinting as it caught the yellow light from a lantern, his grip solid on the well-formed handle. "I was shopping around before and this was my favorite. Thought I was just shit outta luck."

Havoc glanced over, confirming with a nod that it was a Curtis knife. "Hawkeye's got connections, my friends."

His lips curved unbidden when he noticed the sheet of paper wedged in the lid of the wooden case. Unfolding it, he saw:

_December 12_

_Roy,_

_Ours has been a madhouse, as you can imagine. Rosie caught Christmas fever a full month early this year, and it seems she's recruited Hania as a co-conspirator. I swear they've developed some form of telepathy, because when one settles down the other creates one fuss or another. Or they've secretly planned out how best to exhaust us._

_Anyway, it feels a bit like that phrase you told me about. Situation normal, all fucked up._

_Between work and the girls, we've all been run ragged. Sheska's still recuperating, and we try to make her rest, but she's becoming as stubborn as we are (which is impressive). We finally met Walter's new friend, Lynette. She's wonderfully nice, and much more headstrong than the last woman he brought around. I don't think Bec will be able to scare her off so easily._

_I'm afraid this is a little rushed, but your gift just arrived and I wanted to forward it on immediately. I'm sitting in front of the post office writing this (Mrs. Raven's giving me odd looks), and I promise to send another letter soon. On the subject of gifts, I understand you've had your eye on one of these for a while. I do hope you like it. Take care of yourself, Colonel._

_Merry Christmas,_

_Riza_

_P.S. The photos have been destroyed as discussed. I was tempted to keep them for future use as blackmail, but I refrained. You're welcome._

Still smiling, he picked up the knife, freeing the blade once more before folding it securely and slipping it onto his belt. It was not until he did so that he noticed her photo was still out, and at the very second he reached for his wallet to put it away, Breda arrived with a buoyant greeting of, "Merry Christmas, assholes." Dropping into the last remaining chair, he caught sight of the photo and observed, "He keeps it in his wallet now. That's _adorable_."

"And so it begins." Roy's grin somehow turned both resigned and amused at once.

"If you need advice on asking her to dinner, I'm happy to help," Havoc informed him.

"Thanks, but I can handle it."

"Maybe he's more interested in Grandma Havoc." Hughes glanced at him with eyebrows raised suggestively. "Myrtle sounds like a nice lady."

"No jokes about my grandmother, you heathens," came the blond soldier's rejoinder.

"Oh _hell_. There must be someone in dire need of surgery somewhere," Roy dryly hoped as the antics intensified, rubbing at his temples and stretching out his tired legs. He stayed for an hour after his shift ended, once he was officially on-call rather than on-duty, sipping coffee and keeping up with the banter until fatigue set in so deeply he could hardly keep his eyes open any longer. On the subsequent walk back to his bunk, he eyed the letter still in his hand, and his mien brightened once more.

* * *

April 18, 1944 – Leighton, Amestris

Tea in one hand and a collection of envelopes in the other, Riza shut herself in the front office to spend the morning working on a few designs. The moment she sat a tiny sigh escaped her, because atop the blotter rested a postcard that bore a script she recognized, though it did not belong to Mustang. Flipping it over, she read:

_You should know, the Colonel loves finger-painting. Respectfully, Lt. Breda_

She chuckled and added it to the growing pile of unexpected letters from the Lieutenant, the first of which had arrived two months prior. They were always short, and the content was often similar to the most recent addition, for instance: _The Colonel lost your photo and requests another. He also wonders if you happen to have one from your most recent beach trip_ (she was much too intelligent to fall for that); or, _T_ _he Doc's new favorite cookie is the snickerdoodle._ _E_ _specially those from the bakery on 106_ _th_ _ & Stelver_; and one simply said, _COFFEE. COFFEE._ _COFFEE_.

In truth, they were more entertaining than anything else and, if writing her silly notes helped him in some way, she was happy to be the recipient. Nonetheless, she tossed them into one of the drawers, clearing space on the desktop for various design sketches, and set to work. Through her mind ran the changes she'd decided to make to both a rifle and pistol they were developing, as well as a few alterations on a custom order from Mr. Curtis.

She worked diligently for two hours, and made substantial progress, but her eye was repeatedly drawn to the short stack of letters waiting patiently on the edge of the desk. Finishing the notations for the current set of schematics, she gave in and reached over to open the first envelope, lips curving before she even unfolded the pages. It had long since become her usual response to receiving mail from the Colonel.

_April 2_

_Riza,_

_First, I have to thank you for sending so much extra coffee. Breda was pestering me incessantly, and I passed on to him the name and location of that shop where you find it. His parents live in East City, so he should be set. And I threatened him at scalpel-point to stop bothering you with postcards. I also reminded him of my title (the pyromaniac surgeon of the MR-54), and I think he'll leave you alone. For a while._

_And, my apologies, but Hughes managed to get your address as well, and he has a photographic memory, so there's not much I can do. I'm not sure what he wants to write you about, but it may be fairly benign, probably something to do with his wife's birthday coming up. Or his plans are more nefarious. With Hughes, we never know._

_Now, it's my turn for news. To start, we haven't lost anyone this week, and we're hoping that luck doesn't run out. As you probably know, Havoc's of the 'Speak and you'll jinx it' school of thought, but I frequently ignore him and it always turns out fine. This is completely unrelated, but the other day we were shooting skeet with hardtack, and I won our little tournament (I'm sure you're congratulating me, thank you very much). I hear you should be my next competition – Havoc says you'd wipe the floor with me._

_Even better..._

Her reading was interrupted when, from the other room, Becca said, "Riz, get in here."

The woman's tone had her out of the chair in a heartbeat, and once in the sitting room she found her friend staring impatiently at the radio. The look in her eye formed a pit in Riza's stomach. Still in the doorway she waited, until the advertisement for Cord n' Reels finally ended and the newscaster said in that high-pitched, rushed speech, "We apologize for the delay, folks. Before the short break, we relayed the devastating news of an attack on one of our military field hospitals..." She clutched the letter in her hand and moved to sink slowly onto the couch. "...and we are now able to confirm it was staffed by the 54th Medical Regiment."

"No, no, no," she uselessly implored, as Becca's hand clamped over her own.

"Very little information is available at this time, but the military has thus far confirmed fifty casualties and at least as many injured. We will continue to broadcast updates as we receive them. Our thoughts are with the members of the MR-54 and their families. Please..."

She switched off the radio and an emptiness seemed to fall over the room, the newfound silence anything but comforting. The pair stayed like that for a long while, hands clasped, staring ahead in shock, desperately trying to find a shred of hope on which to focus. Eventually, the brunette gave her hand a squeeze and breathed, "I need a minute."

In something of a fog, Riza disappeared into her own room, dazedly lowering herself onto the bed and pulling the silk scarf onto her lap as her vision blurred. Roy Mustang had become a fixture in her life, one she hoped would be permanent once she finally met him, seeing as she already had trouble imagining a world without his messy handwriting, sly jokes, and ridiculous bar stories. And while she'd known all along his death was a possibility, she was now forced to thoroughly contemplate that terrifying alternative.

Closing her eyes, she whispered, "He'll be fine. He'll be fine."

* * *

May 3, 1944 – The Bradley Arms Manufacturing Plant, East City, Amestris

Riza snapped the butt-stock of the rifle into place and hefted the reassembled weapon with one hand, grabbing a box of ammo as she passed into the indoor gun range. She strolled toward the stall at the far end, which had become her favorite, noting the way her footsteps echoed through the empty room. The quiet was therapeutic, calming, and yet much like her active home, it failed to distract her from the worry that intensified each day she did not see his familiar script on an envelope. It had been nearly two weeks since that horrible radio broadcast, and they'd received no word from or about either man. Her grandfather even had calls out to various military contacts, but the chaos had been so great that people were still being found.

"Are you almost ready?" Becca asked from the doorway behind her, a thread of tension now underlying her usually bubbly personality, one that would doubtless remain until she learned of Jean's fate.

She turned and gave her friend a little nod. "This is the last one, an extra from another line Bradley wanted me to test. I'll be done in fifteen."

"It's a nice day out. I'll wait at the truck."

"Alright," Riza called behind her as she reached her destination, setting the weapon down and looping the protective ear muffs around her neck. She let out a little sigh, because she hated that constant hint of fear in Becca's voice, and then pulled the old Aerugonian coin from her pocket. Each time she ran her thumb over its face, she could not help but quirk her lips, and the tiny surge of hope it gave her meant she did that often. For that reason, among others, she'd taken to carrying it around with her every day, and before loading the weapon she set it on the table.

She fired several shots, taking note of the way the stock felt against her shoulder, the recoil, the accuracy, and any number of other details. Potential alterations ran through her head, but the rifle performed well, and the fact that it was entirely her design raised her spirits to some extent. Riza then quickly tidied up and climbed the stairs, where she ran into Mr. Bradley, who asked, "How was the prototype, Miss Hawkeye?"

" _Excellent_." She paused to sign her time card. "I'll make notes on the schematics and bring them in tomorrow."

"Good," he replied with a resolute nod, holding up a folder with one hand. "This is incredible work. Better than your father's, and he was the best. Well done."

"Thank you."

"Miss Hawkeye," a voice interjected, Bradley's receptionist soon poking her head into the hall. "We have a call for you."

Excusing herself, she took the phone with an uncertain, "Hello?"

"I'm glad I caught you before you left," her grandfather responded. "I just heard back. 2nd Lieutenant Jean Havoc was transferred to East City Hospital this morning. He's there now."

Her heart leapt. "And…?"

"No mention of Colonel Mustang. I'm sorry, m'dear. He's still M.I.A."

The now familiar sinking feeling returned to her chest, albeit improved by the reappearance of her friend. "Thanks. We'll head over to the hospital. Can you…?"

"I already picked up Rosie."

"Thanks. I'll update you later." She hung up and raced outside, ignoring the curious looks she received from coworkers as she searched for her keys, forgetting briefly that her friend was already in the truck. The brunette in question only managed to narrow her eyes in bewilderment before Riza yanked open the door and greeted, "Walter found Jean. He's at East City Hospital as we speak."

"Oh my god, Riz." Becca stared, grabbing her hand so tightly her knuckles turned white. " _Oh my god_."

What ensued was a somewhat blurred half-hour of navigating busy city streets and rushing through hospital hallways in a desperate search. In the whirlwind of passing innumerable doctors and patients, her hope began to revive, because he _could_ be there. She felt like a terrible person, horrendously selfish, because her friend was alive, in the same city, but she could not stop thinking about Mustang. Could not stop hoping. She _couldn't stop_.

The pair halted in the doorway when they found him, and Becca grabbed her hand again at the sight of his bruised and battered body. There was a gash over his left eye, the right side of his face was swollen, scrapes were visible on his arms, and his left leg was in a cast. The doctor listening to his chest held up a hand to keep them at the door, and then joined them a moment later, guiding them into the hall. He shook both their hands, and said, "Mrs. Havoc and Miss Hawkeye, I presume?"

"That's us," Riza replied, trying her best to be optimistic.

"I'm Major Armstrong. I worked with Lieutenant Havoc at the field hospital, traveled back with him. I've heard quite a lot about you ladies." He waved toward the door. "The injuries to his face and arms are superficial, and he has a broken femur, which has been set. He's sedated, that type of break can be extremely painful, but he should wake soon."

"So, he's alright. He'll be alright," the brunette said anxiously.

"Yes, he'll be alright," Armstrong reassured, glancing down the hall and giving someone a nod. "I have one other patient to check on, but I'll be back shortly. It was a pleasure to meet you both."

"Thank you, Major Armstrong," Riza responded while Becca yanked her into the room.

"Am I a terrible wife if I wake him up?"

"No, of course not. I'll give you..."

"Wake me up?" a groggy voice interrupted from the direction of the hospital bed. "Rebecca Havoc, I heard you talking to the nurse down the hall." Becca let out a laugh that was half-sob, and moved to grasp his arm mercilessly, leaning over to kiss him soundly. There was some murmured conversation which Riza missed, trying to silently step out the door to give them privacy and ask after Mustang, but then the same scratchy voice stopped her with, "He's not here, Riz."

The pang in her chest was sharp as she paced toward the bed. "Is he…?" She could not quite finish the thought. "Do you know what happened to him?"

Jean's free hand wrapped around hers. "Last I saw he was alive, running off to save someone. And the damn dog followed him. That's all I know. That's all anyone knows. I'm sorry." He glanced at his wife. "He saved my life, so the bastard better still be alive."

"Thank you." Try as she might, she managed only a muted smile and squeezed his hand. "I'm _so_ happy to see you, Jean, but I...I'll be right back. Excuse me." Slipping back into the hall, Riza found the nearest restroom and leaned against the cold tile wall, unable to stop the tears streaming down her cheeks. She took the damn coin from her pocket yet again, and tried to remind herself that he'd last been seen _alive_.

* * *

May 22, 1944 – Leighton, Amestris

The barbecue in honor of Jean's recovery was even more lively than they'd anticipated, and guests were still arriving, which meant this party was going to last well into the night. Though the sky looked ominous, dark clouds rolling and scuttling across it, the rain held off and they benefited from a cool breeze that cut the evening heat nicely. Riza meandered through the crowd, greeting guests and chatting here and there in her efforts to be appropriately cheerful.

She was naturally overjoyed that her friend had made it home alive, albeit not without injury, but she found herself preoccupied with concern for a certain surgeon from the 54th who had yet to resurface. It clung in the back of her mind and had the potential to make her appear significantly less jubilant than she might otherwise have been, but she refused to let her feelings dampen the evening for Becca and Rosie. At the same time, the idea of actually meeting said surgeon set her nerves on edge, which only served to make her already existing anxiety that much more pronounced, so she tried to distract herself by socializing. Her success was questionable.

Catching her grandfather's eye across the yard, she excused herself from her present conversation and took a beer from the chilled bin near the garage. Joining him at the fire pit, she handed it to him and said, "You _are_ capable of getting your own drinks, you know."

"Someone has to make sure the lawn doesn't catch fire. I'm protecting everyone."

"You're _avoiding_ everyone."

"You're one to talk." He put an arm around her shoulders. "I see what you're doing. Keeping busy, playing hostess so you don't always have to mingle."

"You're seeing things, old man."

"I'm sure he's fine, m'dear." He gave her shoulders another squeeze, grabbing a stick to push packets of mulligan stew around the coals.

She nodded, both in gratitude and to convince herself he was right. "Do you need anything else?"

"Just come visit me again in a little while."

"Will do." She made her way to the laden buffet table then, collecting several empty dishes to haul to the kitchen. As she passed Becca, she gave the baby in her arms a kiss on the cheek, laughing softly when Hania latched onto a lock of her hair. "Where's Sheska?"

"Playing euchre." Seeing all the casseroles and crocks she carried, her friend added, "Stop working, would you?"

"I'm just keeping things moving." She gave the other woman a look that meant, _I'm fine_. "I'll be back with more cornbread."

Once in the kitchen, she set the dirty cookware in the sink and turned to lean against the counter, staring at some unfixed point, one hand absentmindedly playing with a towel. On a whim she strode through to the hall, smiling at a guest that said something in passing she could not quite make out. She then sought refuge in the first floor office, breathing deeply in the relative silence and pacing to lean her back against the wall. The hum of the party out back continued, but here she could find a little peace, and once alone her face fell.

The fear that he was dead had been a constant over the past weeks and, for what must have been the millionth time, she pulled the old coin from her pocket, thumb rubbing over the smooth surface. Amestris and Aerugo had even agreed to a tentative ceasefire, but still Roy Mustang was _missing-in-action_. Every time the phone rang she dreaded answering, terrified it might be Chris calling to inform her they'd found his body somewhere. It killed her to think that she may never have even a moment with him, that a box full of letters would be her only memories. That demoralizing train of thought was the most obtrusive and, while she strove to remain hopeful, some days that came more easily than others.

After a mere seven minutes of escape, the front screen door croaked open and snapped shut, the new arrival's steps pausing in the foyer. With another breath she hid the coin away, and tried to wipe all evidence of sadness from her mien as she stepped out of the office. When she emerged, Rosie was already racing out back with a giggling Elicia, and Riza grinned upon being pulled into a hug. "Gracia, it's wonderful to see you again."

"Thank you for inviting us." The other woman waved a hand at the man standing beside her. "This is my husband, Maes. Maes, this is Riza Hawkeye."

"I finally get to meet the famous Hughes," she replied, shaking his hand. "I've heard so much about you."

"A pleasure to meet you." His expression was good-humored and friendly, but she did not miss the sympathy in his eyes. "I've heard a lot about you as well."

Her mouth quirked again, and she lingered fleetingly on the fact that Mustang may have talked about her, but her attention was soon drawn to the dish in his other hand. "Gracia, you didn't have to _bring_ anything. We're drowning in food out there."

"I know you told me not to, but I can't walk into a party empty-handed."

Hughes passed her the dish, adding, "It's one of her compulsions, and _this_ is apple crumble. It's excellent. I tested it for safety."

"Thank you," she chuckled, pointing toward the back of the house. "Head on out through the kitchen, everyone's in the backyard. Drinks and food are by the garage, please help yourselves." While the other pair moved away, she stopped in the dining room to uncover the apple crumble, which looked delicious, and to pick up another dish of cornbread in her vain attempt to keep up with the Havoc family's obsession with that particular quickbread. Pushing her way out the door, she deposited both on the buffet table and stopped to grabbed a beer, meandering over to her grandfather once again. "I don't suppose you have a bottle opener on you."

"Of course I do. What kind of question is that?" He flipped the cap off the bottle and held onto it. "Always bringing me beer. You're just the best granddaughter a man could ask for."

"I am, I know, but that's _mine_ ," she responded while repossessing the bottle. "I just brought you one, you _lush_." After taking a sip, she asked, "Where's Lynette?"

"Off arguing with Rebecca somewhere, I'm sure."

Riza swayed in time to the song playing on the little radio nearby. "I like her. Becca needs more people in her life to disagree with her."

"They can disagree," the brunette said, choosing that rather opportune moment to join them. "But they'll be wrong." Gesturing at Walter with her drink, she asked, "Geezer, you have another extension cord? The guest of honor has decided he'd like to try to dance and we need to bring that big radio outside."

"Havoc's never danced a day in his life, and he's forgetting the _broken leg_ ," Riza chuckled, brow wrinkling as she caught sight of Rosie and Elicia playing near the willow. "Bec, when did we adopt a dog?"

"That's news to me. I thought the Hughes family brought her."

"No, I saw them walk in. They only brought apple crumble, no pets."

"While you two figure that out, I'll just go get that other cord from my garage," Walter interjected, and strolled away toward the path that led to his house.

"Apple crumble, _fantastic_ ," Becca said to herself, examining the buffet table from a distance.

Just then the dog streaked around excitedly, and Rosie let out a mirthful shout, " _Mais_ ie!"

Riza's stomach dropped, eyes widening as they scanned the gathering with greater interest, and she quietly repeated, "Maisie."

"What's that?" the brunette asked in confusion.

"Maisie was the _dog_ , Bec. The one they took care of at the field hospital."

"Wasn't she with Mus..."

" _Yes_." Handing the beer to her friend, she started to move through the assemblage, her chest growing increasingly tense while her gaze jumped from one guest to the next. When that proved fruitless, she strode hurriedly toward the gate, following the drive in the direction of the front lawn, thinking he must have arrived quite recently. However, she passed only silent vehicles, and reached the front yard to find it also devoid of people. On a last ditch impulse, Riza then climbed the front steps to perform a hurried walk-through of the first floor of the house, but it was empty as well.

The sinking of her chest was acute, having allowed herself to fervently hope once more, and she returned to the solitude of the front porch with a disappointed sigh. For the past month she'd had to keep both her extreme hope and undeniable worry safely tucked away, for the sake of her sanity, while she waited to learn the truth. Thus, she wiped at the corners of her eyes as well as she could, trying her utmost to force the tears back into their cage, and stared out into the growing dusk.

Riza exhaled slowly, nearly ready to rejoin the festivities, and then glanced to the side when a figure rounded the corner of the house. Her breath immediately caught because, even in the low light, she recognized that face from the photo at which she'd been too apt to stare for months. The image had done him _very_ little justice. His black hair had the faintest touch of gray at the temple, he looked ridiculously handsome in his simple button down shirt, and she noticed a scrape on his left cheek that was still healing.

His gait slowed when he saw her, watching her with eyes so dark a brown they were almost black as he climbed the first couple steps. Pacing to meet him, she examined his features and pulled in a steadying breath, while intense relief built behind her eyes. That nervous thrill sliced keenly through her once more, and she reached tentatively toward his jaw, just grazing him with her fingertips to gently turn his face for a better view of the cut. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he reassured, and she found she liked the sound of his voice, smooth and pleasantly deep. "I was lucky." He paused, adding, "I know I should've called instead of showing up out of nowhere, but I needed to see you."

That made her smile. "No, I...I'm glad you're here." She looked away before finding his gaze once more. "You scared the _shit_ out of me, Roy Mustang."

"I intend to make it up to you, Riza Hawkeye."

Feeling suddenly warm, she reached up to properly cup his jaw, and he responded by lightly grasping her hip, as though he'd been respectfully waiting for an indication that the gesture would be welcomed. Her stomach tensed wonderfully and she caught his eye, her fingers curving round his jaw until they found his hair. She felt his hand move to her lower back, and she took that as an invitation to shift even closer, bringing her other palm to his waist. All at once his head dipped with the light pull of her hand, his arm tightening around her, and they kissed. Her cheeks flushed from the slow, deliberate way his lips moved against hers, like he'd thought about it more than once, and she gripped him fiercely, as if to prove to herself he was real. He'd survived, he was there.

When they leaned back slightly, her fingers trailed down to his chest and she said, "I never got to ask... _Maisie_?"

"Hughes named her, the narcissist." He took one of her hands, and his skin felt warm against hers. "And I really hope you like dogs, because I couldn't leave her."

She began to walk backward, leading him onto the porch as music started up in the backyard. "Very much, actually."

He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, and abruptly pulled her into another kiss before she'd taken two steps. With an impossibly handsome smirk, and a hand tangled in her hair, he said, "You should expect that to happen frequently."

Her grin intensified, a feat which at that point should have been impossible. "I'll find a way to cope."

"I hope so," he said, voice low.

Face falling slightly, she vacillated and asked, "What happened?"

"I was shot," he began, quickly adding, " _Once_. It was through and through, and I'm fine." He inhaled hesitantly, and continued, "I was stuck in enemy territory with a small unit that radioed for a surgeon during the attack. We managed to escape, but...it was slow going. That's why I'm so late." He glanced away, and shook his head. "I'll tell you anything you want to know, honestly, but my time in Aerugo isn't exactly what I want to think about right now."

A light blush crept up her cheeks, and this time she led him toward the driveway. "Walk with me."

Lacing their fingers together, he asked, "Where are we going?"

"Nowhere, really. I'm just not ready to share you."

"A walk is fine with me. I'm too tired for much else. I only stopped home long enough to bathe and steal my aunt's truck." He was silent for several steps. "I know this was forward of me, and if it's too much..."

"It's not," she interrupted softly, stopping him with a hand on his chest and thinking that smile of his would end up driving her mad in the best possible way. "We could return your aunt's truck in the morning. It'd give me the chance to try one of those amazing omelettes you like to talk about."

"Sounds perfect," he replied, lips grazing the back of her hand. "If you're asking me to breakfast, that must mean I'm invited to stay the night."

"Sure." She bit back a smirk. "Would you prefer the guest room or your truck? _Maisie_ can sleep with me and my cat."

"I'm happy to sleep wherever you like." Without preamble he drew her into another kiss, one made brief by laughter when they nearly toppled over. They regained their balance, but neither relinquished their hold on the other, incredibly loathe to do so after finally finding themselves in the same place. Thoughts of a stroll were soon forgotten, and instead the pair fell into an impromptu dance, slowly swaying in time with the music, alone on the moonlight-dappled lawn.

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you liked the story, and have a good one :)


	6. Se Traiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I hope life is good. This is an AU that I began working on several months ago, and I'm not entirely sure where it came from. I felt the urge, started writing, and this is what happened. Let me apologize for any missed errors, because I've done several read-throughs/edits over the past week and my brain is officially checked out. It's best to post before I go completely bananas. I hope you like the story :)

The Cretan Border – 932 AD

A miasma of smoke hovered above the labyrinthine encampment, turning the afternoon sun into an indistinct, putrid disk. Hundreds of wall tents in varied fabrics crowded the once lush meadow, tall grasses and wildflowers irreparably trampled by thousands of shod hooves and booted feet. On the northern side were assembled the Clans Raven, with their leathern tents and preponderance of bear pelts, while eastward rose the linen shelters of the Traherne armies, ostentatious sheets ranging from ruby to indigo rippling in the wind. To the southwest stood the flax-canvas structures of the Curtis warriors, a vast collection of imposing weapons arranged beside them, and in the center had been erected the spacious residence of Earl Halden, leader of the Bradley Clan and commander of the allied forces of the Westlands.

Amid the multitude a thousand fires burned, the scents of every roasted meat imaginable mingling with the pervasive and unpleasant odors of an amassed army. Metal rang with the touch of whetstones, the crack of hammers echoed as more tents were pitched, and banter was hurled between the many soldiers. Through the flurry strode Riza Hawkeye, her hair and clothes streaked red, a trail of blood dripping from the bag in her hand, and the periodic jeer following in her wake. Mercenaries of her ilk were often underappreciated by the common foot soldier, and she'd always thought it an illogical sense of superiority on their part.

Raised voices grew discernible as she neared the commander's tent, and the guards barely acknowledged her presence when she pushed through the entrance. There she met with the acrid aroma of scorched hair and flesh, and midway inside she was passed by two soldiers carrying a still-whimpering victim, faint black smoke rising from his scalp. The front room was as comfortable as a wall tent could hope to be, with carpets blanketing the ground and candles precariously perched on a utilitarian table of stained maple. On its surface a map lay unfurled, identifying the positions of both allied and enemy forces, and with a smirk she noted a few markers were errantly placed.

It was little concern of hers, as she'd been impolitely reminded more than once that she was paid for prescribed tasks, not strategy, and that was perfectly fine with her. Let the man walk straight toward his own death. She'd earn what gold she could, and leave before his maniacal posturing caused her any real trouble. Those notions stirring in her mind, she studied his error-littered map a minute longer, shaking her head as she moved toward the living area. The dark blue hangings covering the next doorway twitched slightly, as if nudged, and when voices once more became audible, she halted.

Earl Bradley, in his recognizably eminent tone, was saying, "...and this will work?"

Another voice, this one lower and rough, replied, "I'm certain of it."

"I want _him_ to die last. In his own home, after he's watched his entire family perish."

"It will be as you command, my lord." The rustle of fabric followed, as though a cloak were adjusted, and then the second man continued, "As long as..."

"Yes, yes," Halden interrupted, "You'll have your cursed knife."

" _First_."

"That is not what we..."

"That's the deal I'm prepared to offer," came the cavalier interjection.

Bored with eavesdropping, and admittedly curious, Riza finally stepped through the gold-embroidered curtains, and found Bradley lounging in a remarkably throne-like chair. In the center of a neatly woven carpet stood a slim figure, the heavy woolen cloak hanging off knobby limbs, his weathered face framed in a long mess of gray hair. Her eyes narrowed at the man, his presence unexpectedly familiar, and then she strode past to drop the bloody sack beside a bottle of wine. "Pardon the intrusion."

A snort came from the stranger. "A bag of heads delivered by an aelf-woman. Quite reassuring to know Riza Hawkeye has not changed."

Perplexed, her attention returned to the cloaked figure, examining the ebb and flow of his rather dark aura, which led her to conclude he was a sorcerer, likely one with questionable practices. Then she noticed the argent streaks in otherwise mundane irises, and she fought the surprise which sought to alter her features. Torn between the devastating recollections of their last meeting, and relief that he yet lived, she chose to keep with the irreverent tone he'd established. "I hardly recognized you, Mustang." With an amused tilt of the head, she added, "You look terrible. Time as been unkind."

"Only to this body, aelfna."

She smirked, waving toward the crimsoned burlap sack as she addressed her employer. "I've brought a few enemy scouts, as requested."

The commander watched them with interest, and tossed her a suitably weighted purse, which clinked musically when she caught it. "You're dismissed." She strolled toward the exit with a nod, and Bradley continued with his guest by saying, "Very well, the knife first, how..."

"I want her," Mustang demanded.

Riza spun, her brow indignantly rising. "Excuse me?"

He ignored her. "The aelf-woman is a member of my escort, or our deal is canceled."

Bradley's lips curled with something like disdain. "Done."

Her disapproving gaze moved between them, thoroughly perturbed by the two _men_ treating her as a bargaining chip. Not one to squander an opportunity, however, she said, "My fee will triple."

Bradley gave an indifferent nod. "Agreed."

"Excellent." Riza left without further warning, only wondering why the old bastard consented so readily, and why the much older, surlier bastard wanted her assistance in the first place.

The more unwelcome of the voices broke into her musings before she'd even skirted the map-shrouded table. "Aelfna, wait a moment."

She begrudgingly stopped, lifting the figure of a horse from it's position near the Hyrrót Forest in the Northlands. "What is it, warlock? I need to gather my effects."

"I appreciate this enthusiasm for your charge." Mustang circled the table, his movements slow and feeble, the ever-present smirk slipping away. "I'm aware we've not always been on the greatest terms."

"You killed a very good friend of mine," she replied, her tone sharper than intended.

"That was an accident." There was a flash of tension in his jaw. "Unlike what happened to my brother."

She replaced the figurine with undue force. "I don't take kindly to attempts on my life."

"Bygones?" He pushed his hood back, revealing an incomparably aged face. "We can both benefit from this arrangement, if you could only trust me."

"I'm paid to escort you, and so I shall." Riza shook her head, brow quirked, and lowered her voice. "Though I'll warn you not to let Bradley's men discover your loss of magic, _warlock_. Who knows what they might do."

He raised a hand, fingers curled just-so, and her heart began to beat with abrupt irregularity. Her breaths quickened against her will, neck muscles tensing, but she defiantly held his gaze, a palm pressed reflexively to her chest. Her skin flushed unnaturally as her pulse hastened further, until he stepped closer to whisper, "I am far from powerless, aelfna." His hand lowered then, and her heart calmed along with it. "We leave in an hour."

Mustang disappeared into the camp and she remained for several seconds, steadying her breaths while her eyes followed him outside. With a final sigh her body resumed its prior tranquility, and her expression turned to one of intrigue because, despite that display, she'd felt his power waning. And that should have been impossible.

* * *

_112 Years Ago_

_The pain was inexorable, blood stubbornly dripping through the fingers that gripped her skewered forearm. Riza stumbled on the balky roots of a thorn-laden shrub, and grimaced when her balance was only saved by ramming her shoulder into the nearest ash tree. Thirst tore at her throat, and with singular focus her thoughts turned to the brook ahead, hidden away amidst the thick-standing trees. Moonlight brightened as she approached, the luminescent waters trickling softly over rocks while low-hanging leaves rippled the surface. The scene would have been calming, were she not both hexed and wounded._

_A thin fog curled torpidly above, following the stream's meandrous course, and she dropped to her knees at the bank, arm cradled against her torso as she dipped her uninjured hand into chilly waters. Her pain lessened, if fleetingly, and with a satisfied curve of the mouth she eyed the valerian nestled by an impressive yew. She dragged herself over dampened grass, toward the pale pink flowers towering above vibrant green leaves. Chewing one pointed frond, she clambered to her feet as the hex finally weakened, the discomfort waned, and the bleeding slowed._

_Riza plucked the darkest leaves, to control her condition until a healer could be reached, and had just set a boot into the stream when the haze abruptly dwindled. Her hand ran along the curved spine of a labradorite blade, because only magic could dissipate that murk in a matter of seconds. Sure enough, a man wearing Hakuro's colors appeared across the water, not two meters distant, his unremarkable attire more common to a mercenary than any wielder she'd known._

_They watched each other for a still moment, and when his hand twitched she dove, flicking the dagger at his chest. The yew trunk at her back exploded into ragged shards, wood crackling and groaning as the unsupported crown wavered, and she rolled into a crouch while reaching for another weapon. She found the opposite bank suddenly vacant, however, and cautiously rose, waiting to feel the renewed bite of sorcery in the air. The damaged tree howled again, and she stepped aside as it toppled, leaves and snapped twigs floating on the rivulet's surface. Searching the flora around her, Riza slipped another valerian leaf between her teeth and strode into the cold water, irritably muttering something about 'damned warlocks.'_

* * *

They departed under cover of night, and Riza quickly deduced the motivation when, after two hours' ride, their course turned into enemy territory. Freeing her bow from its straps, the leather reins creaked in her hand as she adjusted her posture, shifting the quiver within easier reach. The horses plodded along the overgrown trail, lined on the left by wildflowers and to the right by low shrubs, which eventually gave way to a dense collection of pines. The latter scent reached them in gentle waves, and she scanned the rocky hills ahead, where the unused path vanished in sixty yards.

Five of Bradley's soldiers accompanied them and, to be truthful, that was four more than she would have liked. The lone welcome member was a man named Kain Fuery, and he was much too kind and innocent to have entered this conflict willingly. While his comrades were of an angrier, more violent breed, he retained a rare compassion. He had yet to experience the gruesome realities of battle, and there was a warmth to his presence that she found reassuring, comforting even. The young man had also formed the endearing habit of addressing her as 'milady,' which was a welcome, if slightly amusing, departure from the usual curses flung in her direction.

Her attention was precipitously drawn from that analytical bent by a hint of malice ahead, near where the trail abandoned meadow and tree in favor of jagged stone. Tracking that energy to its source, she spotted a scout crouching in the brush, and her hand had barely tightened around the bow when she felt a light touch on her forearm. She glanced over to see that Mustang had brought his mount alongside hers, and he gave her a minuscule shake of the head, the gesture little more than a twitch. Her mouth formed a suspicious line but she stayed motionless, the group passing uneventfully into the hills, despite the fact she knew there was an unfriendly encampment not five miles distant.

Even stranger, during the days that followed their travels remained unhindered, and she neither saw nor felt any signs of pursuit. The enemy had, inexplicably, left them in peace, and that state of affairs was added to the list of oddities that made her increasingly wary of their mysterious little jaunt. Meanwhile, the warlock kept almost entirely to himself, saying few words to her, and avoiding all interaction with the soldiers, save to give orders. The nights they camped he spent away from the fire, wrapped in his heavy cloak, eating sparsely and making charcoal notations on a bit of parchment.

Equally curious was the noticeable change in Mustang's condition, which worsened considerably each day. It required obvious effort to hold himself upright in the saddle, and on the rare occasion they were forced to walk, there was an unsteadiness in his gait which he took great pains to conceal. Against her better judgment, her growing concern began to overwhelm her silent oath to remember the past, and remain neutral. She refrained from any remarks, however, until they'd passed through the inhospitable hills and reached the wooded fens beyond, when she'd soon have occasion to send the soldiers away on the pretext of scouting. The warlock preempted by giving the command himself, and she set to starting a fire while he practically fell to the ground beside an unusually rotund poplar.

Once all sound of their companions had faded, Riza asked, "What are you planning, warlock?"

Voice replete with exhaustion, he straightened against the tree. "Best not to concern yourself with my intentions. You're paid to escort me, remember?"

She added a log to the ignited kindling. "If you've dragged me into one of your machinations, I ought to know. You speak of trust, and yet..."

" _My_ lack of trust was never the issue," he interrupted, an unexpected level of vehemence in his tone.

Her lips pursed. "No doubt that's why you shared so little of your life. Because you _trusted_ me."

"Aelfna, please." Mustang exhaled, pain visible in his short-lived grimace. "In this, I have no choice."

"That's clear enough." She waved toward his hand, which could hardly unclasp his cloak. "You're not well, and while you may despise me for past grievances..."

He'd opened his mouth, as if to interject, but Fuery's sudden return served to end their conversation, a bag of fresh fruit in his grasp. In silence the trio supped on smoked lamb and wild blackberries, the soldier closely studying his food, seemingly aware he'd intruded on a personal moment. With the excuse of hunting for more berries, Riza eventually strolled from camp, her frustrated mind full of internal reprimands. Even after a century, the man was under her skin.

* * *

_A pyre blazed in the glade's center, a glistening swine slowly rotated upon a spit, and a hundred stately spruces presided over the night's festivities. Six-foot, long-burning torches stood at even intervals, and members of the Armstrong and Hakuro clans moved through the flickering light. At one edge of the clearing rose barrels of black mead and barley ale, provided from Earl Armstrong's private stores, and nearby a heavy table creaked under the weight of breads, platters of fish, local fruits, leek and cabbage softened in butter, and more besides. The earl had spared nothing in the celebration of his youngest daughter's betrothal, not to mention the demonstration of his unquestionable power and wealth, his favored method for beginning all truces._

_The bride-to-be, Catherine, danced with a nervous exhilaration, stealing furtive looks at her intended, a young man named Vato Falman, who had rapidly gained position as Hakuro's adopted son. Little did the bride know, he'd done so by dispatching the lady's elder brother, among other highly-ranked soldiers. Being the product of a similarly political marriage, between an aelfen woman and a human lord, Riza watched the couple and silently hoped their lives would be happier. She reasoned they must fare better than the Hawkeyes, who had quite literally killed each other._

_She waded round the edges of the boisterous gathering, and paused near one of the ancillary fires. From the short table to her left, she plucked a bundle of herbs and tossed it into the flames, a long-practiced ritual meant to bring good fortune to the couple. Tonight they'd bound together myrtle to inspire affection, hyssop for protection from nefarious spirits, elecampane to invite the wisdom of friendly ancestors, and mistletoe to promote the swift conception of an heir._

_The little magic she'd inherited from her mother did its work, and largely imperceptible sparks of green and amber darted from the smoldering leaves. Her hair then rose and she glanced above the flames, meeting the gaze of a young man with a dark aura and russet-brown hair. After an instant, she recognized him as the wielder with whom she'd recently had an altercation in the Hyrrót Forest. His eyes were a silver-flecked laurel, his nose was a hair crooked, and she found herself momentarily caught by his easy smile._

_Focus transferring to his aura, she became occupied with reconciling the overwhelming darkness with the hints of vibrancy. The faint black lines running along his wrist, disappearing beyond the cuffs of his sleeves, confirmed her theory that he was no ordinary warlock. He was a shāthe, a human that had chosen to sacrifice his mortal life in exchange for an immortality spent borrowing an endless series of hosts. They were often feared, branded as evil, but she'd never seen the world in such stark, dichotomous terms. After all, even with a dagger in his chest, he could have easily killed her back in that forest._

_There was more to him than darkness._

* * *

The next two days passed much like the initial three, and Riza attempted no further inquiries into the warlock's plans, which meant they scarcely spoke. It was wiser, she reasoned, to keep her involvement minimal, and with quiet apprehension she observed his worsening health. His mien grew steadily haggard, his muscles weaker, and it seemed his appetite was practically nonexistent, such that even his oft-favored blackberries were no longer a temptation. She tried to ignore her worry by reading the only book in her possession, but it persisted nonetheless.

On the fifth evening they halted late, after wasting an entire afternoon in the problematic fording of a river. The wooden bridge had collapsed in a recent storm and, as the closest alternative was twenty miles north, they were forced to cross at an undesirably perilous location. Once again, the horses were hobbled, a fire was started, and Mustang collapsed, meting out a tired directive for the soldiers to scout. As the men stalked into the surrounding woods, Riza leaned back with her book and a bundle of apricots she'd picked near the river, but she had finished only a page before a rough voice said, "I fear I need a favor, aelfna."

Riza bit into her fruit and continued reading. "Whatever it is, I know a hedge witch three miles east that would be more helpful."

"Must you always be so difficult?"

"Only for your benefit." She selected another apricot and closed the book. "I have very little magic in my blood, you know this. I can sense spirits and energy, read auras. I exist merely on the edge of that world."

"Perhaps." His ensuing nod was slow, his features glazed. "But you've enough power for my needs."

After a moment, Riza exhaled her mild resignation, moving to kneel beside him. "What is it you want?"

"I knew you didn't truly hate me." He took her right hand, placing it over his heart and covering it with his own. "I'll produce the array, and you'll frame it. If you'd be kind enough to interpret, I'd be grateful."

"Very well."

She waited, expecting him to conjure the aforementioned array, but instead he began, "That banquet at Leven Muir..." He was cut short by a slight, pained wince, and then: "Your coat was forest green, your smile improved my mood from across a crowded clearing, and I was speechless."

She tried to hide her involuntary grin, raising her brow. "The one and only instance in your many lives, I'm sure."

"My point is I've never forgotten." His inhalation was labored before he added, "And I never despised you."

Riza contemplated their hands for several seconds, his skin far rougher than when they'd first met. "May we proceed?"

"Yes, of course." He took another breath and slowly lifted his hand ten inches above his chest. Hers rose along with it and, as the distance grew, a bright web of energy appeared, numerous metallic threads stretching from his sternum to various points on her fingers and palm. Some were direct, crossing the expanse unhindered, whereas others were knotted in the middle, wound around each other in a dizzying tangle. They glowed brilliantly, reminiscent of moonlight glinting off a calm lake, the radiance dimmed only by a small collection of black fibers interspersed with the rest.

Mustang's hand dropped to the ground as she scrutinized the network, first following the thread connecting his chest to the line of fate on her palm, then the strand terminating at the end of her ring finger. Several others were frayed, denoting the vessel's deterioration, and she shook her head, gut sinking at the sight of so many dark fibrils. "Have you dabbled in necromantia, you idiot?"

"Not recently." In response to her wry look, he added, "Not for two hundred years, aelfna."

"Then I can only confirm what you already know. You're fading." She paused, tracking a worn thread linked to one of the bracelet lines at her wrist. "And your kidneys are failing. What happened?"

His shrug was lazy and unconcerned. "This body never agreed with me. And around twenty years ago I met an extremely vindictive sorceress."

Riza took his free hand, grazing a thumb across the back and watching the way his skin slid with uncommon ease over muscle, almost like a thin glove. "You're disintegrating from within. If you don't regain your full gifts, I expect you have just days." She lowered her palm to his chest, and thus broke the connection. "We ought to visit that hedge witch."

He shook his head, trying weakly to move his arm. "Take another look at the array. See if you can sever any calcified lines, buy me time."

"I'd most likely kill you. I'm a reader, not a healer."

"I'm aware, but..."

Her expression became stern. "That's enough discussion, warlock. It's time we lost your friends."

"My friends?" he replied, voice strained even while a wan smirk formed. "I thought they were yours."

Her mouth quirked, and she helped him to maladroitly stand. "Are they friends if you're paid to spend time with them?"

"That's hurtful. I thought we were bonding."

With a chuckle, she gently reproved, "You shouldn't waste what little strength you have on jokes."

"Milady?" an uncertain voice interjected, announcing that Kain Fuery had paced soundlessly into the camp site.

Riza smiled at his continued formality, and set a hand on the hilt of her knife. "We're leaving. Would you care to accompany us?"

The soldier dropped onto his woolen blanket, fishing a pouch of cashews from a bag. "They'll find you, and I can't afford to betray Bradley at this juncture. Certainly not for a powerless wizard." He tilted his head, as if in consideration. "I can slow them, no more."

Mustang shared a glance with her, and gave the younger man an appreciative nod. "Thank you."

* * *

_Soft light emanated from the dozen candelabra situated about the longhouse, and a cauldron simmered above the stone-rimmed fire. Spruce pillars lined the room, their surfaces decorated with winding serpents, creatures of legend, and the twisting roots of Yggdrasil. Two long, sturdy tables stretched along either side of the open hearth, and Riza lounged at one such, picking at a trencher filled with fish and cabbage._

_Olivier drank wine across from her, a scar just beneath one glacial eye and blonde hair pulled artfully back via braids and leather ties. With an apathetic air she scanned the room, then lifting a pitcher of imported claret with a disappointed crease to her mouth, filling both ladies' cups. "Catherine seems to enjoy married life," she observed, as though it were the worst insult which could be levied against her sibling._

_Glancing up from her food, Riza said, "If I wanted wine, I'd have asked for it."_

" _Did I ruin that swill you were drinking? How thoughtless of me."_

_She tossed a wayward bone into the coals. "You remove a few heads in battle and suddenly you're too good for mead."_

_With a laugh, Olivier tore a chunk of venison from her plate. "I've a mind to take several score more. That coward Hakuro violates the treaty, and yet Falman is still permitted to breathe."_

" _For the moment."_

_The other woman's face brightened unexpectedly, and she wiped her hands clean with a scarlet cloth. "It just occurred to me that I have a previous engagement."_

_She smiled in amusement and surveyed the door, near which stood a young man from a prominent Ishvalan clan, sharp features framed by white hair. "I'm sure you do."_

_Her friend responded with a sardonic glare, before rising to cut a path toward the doorway, the pair slipping promptly into the night. Riza continued her meal in silence, every so often stealing a bite of venison from the other plate, and frowned slightly at the mixture of mead and wine in her cup. The experience was marginally improved by the introduction of more claret, and she listened to the cacophony around her, the earl's men growing increasingly raucous with every pint of ale. She'd nearly abandoned the remains of her supper in favor of peace, and then a figure dropped into the lately vacated seat. A recognizable labradorite dagger slid into her field of vision, while a deep voice greeted, "I have an unsightly new scar, thanks to you."_

_She drew the weapon from the leather sheath, and noted the familiar runes carved near the hilt. "I hope you're not after an apology. You tried to hex me, warlock."_

_He peered curiously into the pitcher. "And in doing so damaged a rather unfortunate tree."_

_Glancing at the wielder, she returned to her meal. "Some would call your aim pitiful."_

_The hints of a smirk played_ _at_ _his_ _lips_ _, and he took the liberty of filling a copper mug with wine._ _"_ _Only as pitiful as yours, I should think."_

* * *

An hour's walk through the woods brought them to a circular cabin, smoke surging from an opening in the roof's center. The fragrance of damp grasses was almost overpowered by something truly odious, which ignited stomach-turning visions of bile and stewed frogs' kidneys. Once they entered, the source was revealed to be an herbal concoction simmering in an iron pot, the stench weakly combated by bunches of lavender and sage suspended round the single-room dwelling. At one side was positioned a cot, piled high with linens and furs, while bowls of myriad size were arranged on a table not far away, their contents varying from freshly harvested lemon balm to earthworms milled into paste.

The pair hobbled awkwardly to the cot, sparks flying from the fire as they passed, and Mustang slumped wheezing onto the blankets just moments before the hedge witch materialized through the wall. She strode toward the pot casually, as if she'd used a door like anyone, and tossed in sprigs of cinquefoil, regarding the warlock with unrestrained mistrust. Rather than address him, she said, "You wish me to aid a _sh_ _ā_ _the_ , Hawkeye?"

"You've already decided to help, or we never would've found your home." Riza detached a small purse from her belt and set it beside a platter of dead scorpions. "Consider this proof of my gratitude, Mei."

The woman sprinkled vervain flowers into the vat, the patterned silk of her garments somewhat incongruous with her modest surroundings. A gentle pressure descended on Riza's ears, one sign of the privacy spell meant to keep their conversation privileged, and the witch said, "The man became a parasite. He steals life undeserved, and still you care for him."

The blonde looked over at Mustang, who had laid back on the cot in complete enervation. "I'd very much prefer that he live."

She started slightly when Mei placed a hand on her cheek, searching her eyes carefully before shaking her head. "You are not hexed, or otherwise impaired." The woman paused, brow rising. "Does he wish to end this war, or encourage it?"

"My hope is the former, but I'm not privy to his plans."

"Very well." The conjurer indicated the bubbling pot with a wave. "The shāthe must drink as much as he can stomach. It will be unpleasant, but he'll gain a slight reprieve." She fell silent again, stepping back to the wall through which she'd arrived. "This is all I can do for him. You understand."

Briefly grasping the witch's hand, she earnestly replied, "Thank you."

Mei was already vanishing as she added, "I trust this makes us even."

Instantly the pressure on her ears melted away, and the first thing she heard was Mustang dryly commenting, "I'm sure the she-devil had lovely things to say about me."

"Be kind. She agreed to help you."

"Allow me to hazard a guess." With a groan he pushed himself into a sit. "It involves that putrid cocktail."

Riza smirked as she ladled that very infusion into a bowl. "I'm sure it's not as awful as it smells."

He accepted the drink with a skeptical eye, grimacing on first taste. "This was deliberate."

She filled another vessel and sat beside him. "Drink, impossible man."

Mustang sighed and took a long draught, almost immediately hacking up a black, viscous substance. "It fucking burns."

She pushed the second helping into his hands. "Please, do complain more. I imagine it helps."

"Thank you," he hoarsely began between swigs. "You're the only reason she offered even this."

Riza examined the liquid with displeasure, nose wrinkling unconsciously. "Drink as much as you're able."

For some time conversation was nonexistent, the warlock steadily imbibing amid uncontrollable gagging, while she made repeated trips to the fire, filling one bowl after another. He'd downed more than half before the urge to vomit became _almost_ irresistible, at which point he declined another serving with a terse head shake. In spite of the potion's own ill-effects, she would admit a certain energy had returned to him, such that he was capable of exiting the dwelling under his own power. With little in the way of preamble or discussion their ride resumed, the tiny hut disappearing as they continued west.

* * *

_The missive was written on sickly gray parchment like all the rest, the text similarly utilitarian and unassuming. It invited her, in the politest language, to return to the Havoc Clan, assuring that all past disagreements were forgotten. She smiled at that line in particular, because 'disagreement' was a strange euphemism for the utter insanity that had taken place in the wake of her parents' deaths. How the clan had managed to send her one message, let alone four, was bewildering, and she was too cautious to fall for deceptively pleasant words. Of all the families in this world, hers was perhaps the least trustworthy, and thus she tossed the page into the fire, watching the edges smolder and curl._

_As the script rapidly vanished, a figure filled the seat across the table, placing a red earthenware mug before her. She glanced from the cup to the man that brought it, who pleasantly asked, "Share a drink with me?"_

_Riza's mouth started to curve at the metallic glint in his brown irises, and a faint thrill crept up her spine. Tawny hair fell over his angular jaw, and black lines already crept from beyond his hairline; this body would not last long. "I'm not convinced you're worthy."_

_He grinned mischievously and leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I'm willing to prove myself, aelfna."_

* * *

The journey lasted through sunrise, taking them from wooded swampland to another line of hills, these greener and lazier than the first range they'd traversed. At the foot of one such mound, situated far from the trail and surrounded by peach trees, they came to a thatched cottage. The ramshackle walls were chipped and cracked, many a year had passed since those windows saw firelight, and half the roof had caved. It was evident the building had been kept standing by magic alone, and she'd guess the disintegration coincided with the waning of Mustang's strength.

The blonde dismounted, scanning the overgrown garden. "Where are we?"

He climbed laboriously from the saddle, his cloak catching on the edge, and eyed the front door with unanticipated trepidation. "My mother's birthplace." He stumbled briefly and, when she caught his arm, continued to explain, "The sorceress was my half-sister, and I assume this location was supposed to be meaningful. Took me the full twenty years to find where she hid the damn place. And the little shrew tied it to my life force. Naturally."

"Clever move on her part."

His chuckle was breathy, the following inhalation rough, and he proceeded to hack several times. "This place was unbelievable when my grandmother still lived. The garden full of yarrow and juniper, and anything else you might envision."

"Sounds lovely." The entrance gaped before them, the moldering frame conspicuously bowed, without even hinges to suggest there had ever been a door. Dim sunlight illuminated the crumbling hearth, beams winding through the vast hole in the thatched roof, and she could discern a dark archway at the far end of the room. Spotting a lopsided table, the legs of which had decayed, Riza finally observed, "For some reason, I doubt we're actually searching for a knife."

"Bradley could hardly be trusted with the truth." Mustang led her to the far wall, sidestepping a large branch that had fallen from the trees above, and set a frail hand against a hairline crack. The breach further separated, each edge slowly smoldering away until a small compartment was revealed. From it floated a circular stone periapte attached to a tarnished chain, its surface covered in magical symbols and runic markings.

Riza turned toward the door as boot-falls sounded outside, her hand coming to rest on her knife when she recognized the soldier on the threshold. She'd scarcely registered the bow trained on them before an arrow was loosed at her heart, and then Mustang spun them with more dexterity than he'd shown in days. The black arrowhead gleamed briefly in a shaft of light, the weapon visibly melting as it passed between them. Only the fletching remained, floating uselessly to the ground, and the warlock lifted a gloved hand, his gaze momentarily losing focus while his wrist gave a brusque twist.

The soldier collapsed in the doorway, and she warily began, "After all that effort to keep you alive, Roy..."

"You finally use my name." He pressed the stone into her palm, his other hand rising to gently cup her jaw. "For once in your life, _trust me_."

He kissed her then, the pendant abruptly heating enough to sear her skin, and summarily crumpled to the dirt floor. She surveyed the cottage in a daze, the chain dangling from her fingers as she stepped over his body, her head shaking distractedly. Riza paced through the door, halting when she spied the other corpses scattered about the clearing, blood trailing from their eyes, noses, and ears. Still bewildered, she held the talisman under the sunlight, perusing the marks and identifying the stone as red jasper.

The blonde stiffened when one of the supposedly dead figures stood. "Fuery?"

The soldier approached, his expression sheepish, and pointed to the dark leather braid encircling his arm. "Protection charm." He hesitated, and then grasped her wrist. "Please excuse the liberty, milady."

"Kain..." She attempted to draw back her hand, but his grip was firm. "What exactly is going on?"

Riza then heard a sudden rushing in her ears, along with that pressure from before, but in this instance it was exceedingly severe, a migraine quickly slicing through her skull. Her free hand rose to vainly press against her forehead, eyelids squeezing shut against an unbearably bright light. The periapte again grew painfully warm, and then the pressure vanished just as abruptly, along with the heat. The light had dimmed to a flickering orange, and the air on her cheek was cooler than that of the sunlit clearing. Upon glimpsing their surroundings her shoulders fell, because the hall in which they stood was dispiritingly familiar. Her hand closed tightly around the carved red jasper, and she whispered, "The bastard took me home."

* * *

_His eyes were bluer, he stood a full foot taller, and his hair was a deep auburn, unevenly shorn during his recent captivity. The mouth at her neck, however, could only belong to Roy Mustang, lips tracking along her jaw to a place he well-knew made her shudder. Fingertips following his spine, she acquainted herself with other novel features: the fantastical tattoo of an ibex curving round his arm, the letter H branded on his shoulder, the sliver of cartilage missing from his ear. This was the third body he'd taken since they met and, selfish though it was, she never inquired whence the hosts came._

_Her fingers played over his ribs, pausing when his laughter teased the crook of her neck, and she smiled. Roy leaned on an elbow, and kissed her before saying, "I'm a mite ticklish, it seems."_

_She traced his side once again, to bring about that impulsive and infectious laughter. "That's new."_

_Her hand then grazed the mottled bruise on his chest, and he must have noted the fading of her amusement, because he said, "I escaped before they could learn anything. I'm alright."_

" _They'd relieve you of your head merely for being a shāthe."_

" _Be assured, I refrained from announcing my evil nature."_

" _I should hope so, otherwise you wouldn't be nearly as clever as I thought." She turned on her side, tugging at the sheet that had somehow twisted between them, her voice softening. "I've missed you, warlock."_

" _You'll tire of me before long." His hand came to rest on the small of her back and, though his response was teasing, his tone made it plain the sentiment was returned._

_Riza hooked a leg around his hip and pulled him closer. "I leave for the Westlands tomorrow, and not even you can exasperate me before sunrise."_

_His brow lifted. "That sounds remarkably like a challenge."_

* * *

Her former quarters were dusty and chilled, but otherwise unchanged, even after an absence of one hundred and seventy years. With languid steps she crossed to the window, her fingers tracing the arched back of a chaise while an unrecognizable maid started a fire in the neglected hearth. A nostalgic smile formed at the sight of embroidered hangings, memories pouring forth of the many hours spent with her mother, trading stories as they worked. She pushed the drapes aside to reveal a view grievously missed, the gardens below lit by floating orbs, agile vines scaling stone walls whilst all manner of flowers blanketed the ground.

Her attention unexpectedly called by the click of a latch, Riza found her grandmother in the doorway. "Althea."

"My dear." The other woman took in her appearance, her face deceptively impassive. "You've been well?"

"I have."

The blonde opened her mouth to continue, stomach churning as a tray was carried in by a servant, and then Jean Havoc's sharp voice echoed down the hall. He promptly stepped inside, his calculating gaze falling instantly to her, his frown severe and ill-humored. "You're alive." There was neither relief nor disappointment in his tone, only the clinical air of observation, and that was the extent of any niceties as his next words were, "With me."

Althea shot her a worried look, and surged forward. "Honestly, Jean, she's just returned. Could we not…?"

"This is no time for refreshments and idle chat." His vitriolic demeanor refused to wane even for the woman that raised him. "I still have business with that bloody shāthe."

"But surely..."

"Enough."

With a tilt of his head, two guards flanked her, and Riza was hurriedly escorted from the room. No words were shared as she was guided down a series of corridors, along a path that she knew led to the dungeons. The air turned musty and foul the deeper they ventured, and she furiously wondered at the warlock's motives for sending her to a cousin that had been intent on killing her for two hundred years. _Trust me_. Mustang's final words crept among her thoughts, and she would have liked to oblige. However, as a direct result of his manipulation, she'd been thrown into a fate she had long defied.

Shockingly, rather than push her into a cell, Havoc took her to the central chamber, where a prisoner was chained upright against the stone wall. The man watched them enter, and she saw a sneer flit across a pale face, black hair falling over narrowed dark eyes. His wrists and ankles bore grimy rings, suggesting his imprisonment was not especially brief, and from him wafted the aroma of one who had not bathed in some time. As if in response to that very thought, a soldier arrived to dump water on the man's head, and this was followed by yet another to the same purpose. The captive cursed vehemently, and seemed on the verge of a furious tirade until Havoc raised a sword to his throat. "Silence, vermin." Beckoning her forward, he ordered, "Get on with it."

Her brow creased. "With what?"

"Milady, if I may." The soldier Fuery soon came to her side, noticeably unrestrained. "He would have done something before his demise, to complete the enchantment. Those actions must be taken in the same sequence."

"And _Kain_ is an authority on these matters?"

"He's the shāthe's apprentice," Jean imperiously interrupted. "Enough delay."

"His _apprentice_ ," she repeated, an amused curve to her mouth. "Of course he is."

Recognizing her spectacular lack of options, she faced the captive, meeting his enraged and fearful visage with the resignation in her own. She pushed the blade from his throat and took the stranger's hand, flattening the talisman against his palm. His mien lost some of its fire as she stepped closer, and became markedly bewildered when she ran two fingers along his jaw. "My apologies for this," she quietly said, ignorant of his crimes against Havoc and unconvinced that he deserved this particular punishment.

Riza chastely pressed her lips to his, and felt the man straighten in surprise, even as the stone again scorched her skin, the pain sharp and unyielding. She'd just made to pull away when the kiss was returned in astonishingly tender fashion, his fingertips skimming her neck as empty iron shackles clattered to the floor. His other hand hovering near her waist, she leaned back with an unsteady breath, and found that previously cold, dark eyes had warmed. The smirk that formed was entirely Mustang as he asked, "Well?"

"You're not unattractive."

He hesitated, some blithe remark no doubt on his tongue, and then they were both wrested back to reality by the guards that yanked her away. Any opportunity to repel them was swiftly preempted by the blade at her throat, and she stared at the warlock, half-expecting him to decimate the guards with a flourish of his hand. "You cannot be serious."

His knuckles whitened around the pendant. "Your cousin and I have an agreement." This last word was ground out reluctantly, and he removed the necklace chain, securing it around her wrists with a whispered incantation. "I hoped it wouldn't come to this."

Riza gave him a wan smile. "And I hoped you would never succumb to this madness."

* * *

" _Come with me."_

_Riza was rounding the room, extinguishing candles when he said it, his expression dominated by apprehension. Beyond the walls of her small cabin were heard the shouts of men and rumble of hooves, the first hunting party sent after the suspected murderers of the earl's beloved daughter. She suffocated another wick between her fingers, and said, "You know I can't."_

_He gave a laconic shake of the head, collecting his effects from beside the bed they'd so recently occupied. "You owe these people nothing."_

_She waved around the room. "This is the closest I've ever had to a real home, Roy."_

" _I know," he replied with a slow nod, and crossed the floor to take her hand. "We could find another. Somewhere far from the Armstrongs, your family, and everyone else."_

_She hesitated, stepping closer to place a hand on his side. "I've made a commitment. I can't just leave."_

_His shoulders fell, and he gently gripped her arm. "They're planning an alliance with your cousin, Riza. They intend to present you to him, as a peace offering. I overheard the earl's discussion with an envoy."_

" _They promised me protection." She shook her head in disbelief and shifted away. "I won't argue that Earl Armstrong can be cruel, but even he honors his word."_

" _You can't honestly think I'd invent this."_

" _Which party has earned my trust?" she rejoined with a frustrated shrug. "The family I've lived and fought with for ten years? Or the man who refuses to tell me where he's from?"_

_His lips thinned, corners pulled slightly downward. "One of many details that are irrelevant to my feelings for you. Details that are best left in the past."_

" _Says the man that knows all mine." She searched the fire, briefly moving to the door at the sound of more horses, and she slung a pack over her shoulder. "I know you had nothing to do with Catherine's death, but Armstrong will assume you were working with Maes. You need to leave before they realize this is your new form. I can lead them away, try to give you time."_

_When he drew her into a kiss, it carried a discouraging finality. "Thank you."_

_He was walking across the threshold before she could respond, and Riza stared after him, fingertips rising to her lips. It had taken a great deal, she knew, for him to trust her at all, to believe that she'd guard the secret of his nature. And with a single refusal, she had breathed life back into the walls between them._

* * *

Riza allowed herself to be led from the dungeon without fuss, and a short walk brought her to a thick bronze door, every inch covered in chaotic symbols. For centuries, mortals and magic users alike had presented offerings at the site known as _Vatn_ , believed by many to grant one's desires in exchange for the right price. What that price was could never be accurately divined, which had predictably led to countless sacrifices perpetrated by one greedy bastard after another. Some sought love, others wealth or the banishment of illness, but most wanted power, and it was to the latter camp that her cousin belonged. Havoc was only one quarter aelf, lacking in almost all the gifts bestowed on that species, and in the Bradley Clan he'd encountered a stalwart enemy, his superior in both resources and numbers. In Jean's mind, with her aelfen blood and distinction as last living member of the once indomitable Hawkeye line, Riza's death could turn the tide.

They pushed her inside with such force that she rolled across the stone floor, grimacing when her elbows twinged on impact. The doors clanged and she lay still for many minutes, peering up at the shafts of light which crisscrossed the oval-shaped room, pouring from orbs similar to those in her beloved garden. Eventually she labored to her feet, the task made ungainly by her bound hands, and eyed the circle of runes in the center of the room. It was bisected by a definite crack in the stone, and nearby a dark green line curved from one wall to the other, approximately fifteen feet from the door at any given point. She strolled along it for a few steps before finally crossing, and in that same instant the chain fell from her wrists. As it turned out, the cost of that small freedom was the activation of a boundary spell which precisely followed the arched line, an invisible wall keeping her from all means of escape.

Riza wandered aimlessly for an unknown period, until the entrance groaned once more, and her head tilted curiously when Mustang stepped inside. His face had been washed, his garments changed, and he reminded her altogether more of the Roy Mustang she'd met eleven decades earlier. After a momentary hesitation, he strode through the barrier and held up the disk of red jasper. "There is one other favor I must request." His hand fell, and he glanced away before saying, "I'd find someone else if I could, but we both know it's you."

With a nod she paced closer, calmly unbuttoning his jerkin to push aside his shirt, and he stiffened when her fingertips grazed his collarbone. She accepted the amulet and positioned the carvings against her palm, pressing the stone to the upper right portion of his chest. This time the pendant cooled, glowing with a pale red iridescence as it essentially grafted itself to skin and muscle, and he tensed in response to what must have been extreme pain. Once it ended, after the stone vanished and only tattooed flesh remained, he inhaled deeply and she felt his chest rise beneath her hand. He then stepped backward, her fingers slipping from beneath his shirt while he softly thanked her.

Mustang turned to leave, his steps echoing off barren walls, and she said, "I'm sorry, Roy." He froze, still facing the doors, and she watched him for several moments, not daring to move. "For your brother, for everything. You asked me to leave with you once, and I wasn't ready. I'd say that will forever be my greatest regret, but I suspect my long life is drawing to a close." She paused again, eyeing his back as though she might read his thoughts from the set of his shoulders. With a little smile, she added, "Saying no, back then...it never meant that I don't love you."

Many seconds of silence passed before he left without a word, and Riza wiped the tears from her cheek as the doors ground ominously closed.

* * *

_There was a bitterness in the air, residual energy from a curse narrowly avoided, and the dangerously deep cut to her side stung from the effort. Her fingers were slick with blood and, with a shaky hand, she pulled a labradorite knife from the offending wielder's neck. Glancing toward Olivier's motionless form, she watched Mustang slowly rise, his wide eyes trained on the figure over which she crouched._

_Riza stood, and distress seeped into her tone when she said, "You were supposed to leave."_

" _He's my brother," Roy bit out sharply. "I couldn't abandon him, no matter what he's done." The shards of a damaged talisman rose from the dead man's jacket, and the warlock held out a hand to catch them, fury further etching his features as he examined the artifact. "He can't be brought back in another host, thanks to your knife. But then, you knew that."_

_He formed a fist and her grip tightened preemptively on the dagger, but the stone simply crumbled, black dust spilling to the ground. The thunder of hooves grew louder, an Armstrong hunting party coming ever closer, and he finally looked up from Maes' body, her gaze pleading with him to run. After a moment he strode away and, though he left her alive, as his brother's blood drenched the dirt at her feet, she feared Roy would never forgive her._

* * *

Riza patiently whiled away the ensuing hours, alternately pacing or idly scrutinizing runes, not bothering to attempt an escape she knew was impossible. By the time hinges grated, she was lying on the uncommonly warm stone floor, gazing at the unchanging spheres of light. Through the opening door came her grandmother's voice, appealing uselessly to her nephew in hopes of sparing her granddaughter. His crisp replies grew louder, and soon the blonde was roughly tugged to her feet, a set of hands brusquely shoving her to the runic circle's edge. She nearly lost her balance, and it was Mustang who caught her by the arms, helped her stand. She would have offered her thanks, but Havoc shortly strode into the room with the terse greeting, "Shāthe."

Roy's nod was admittedly compulsory. "My lord."

She looked past him for a moment, where a teary-eyed Althea stood, and then the woman anxiously twisted a silk kerchief, hurrying down the corridor and out of sight. She released a slow exhalation, blinking back the pressure that formed at the loss of her only ally, at the depressing acceptance that she was to die surrounded by enemies and absent the honor of a battlefield. Salvaging her composure, she watched the warlock pour a black liquid along the engravings, the substance spreading until it had filled every line and symbol.

He held a hand above the circle, palm downward, fingers splayed with exactitude, and in seconds the stone beneath her feet vibrated. A low rumble filled the room, rock scraping as the entire circle sank several feet, after which it split along that omnipresent crack, and each half slid into depressions built in the foundations. Acrid, super-heated air whipped around them, the sulfuric tang stinging her nostrils, and the occasional fleck of ash swirled on the riotous currents. Far below, at the bottom of the newly opened pit, molten rock churned, lapping against walls protected by ancient enchantments.

Riza addressed her cousin with an incredulous chuckle. "This is lunacy."

Jean stepped toward her, looking utterly pleased. "We shall see."

Her smile held more amusement than it likely ought. "I hope you tear each other apart."

She saw the glint of steel just before it pierced her stomach, and fought back a groan, fruitlessly staunching the wound with her hands as Havoc leaned forward with a twisted grin. "Maybe that will help things along."

Clutching her bleeding abdomen, she took a step into the abyss, and found herself supported by invisible forces. Riza paced to the center, buffeted by arid breezes from seemingly every direction, attention inevitably straying to the seething lava below. She coughed and blood spilled beyond her ineffectual fingers, dribbling onto whatever magical surface held her aloft.

With faltering steps, she met Mustang's eyes and, despite the recently acquired form, she saw _him_ there, be it the silver that had invaded those dark irises, or the way they softened when he looked at her. She ought to be furious, but in truth the moment was oddly liberating, because all the violence, death, and longing that had ruled her life would finally end. Air rushed past her ears, her cousin shouted maniacally, but she watched Roy, and he never faltered. Ultimately, she gave a resolute nod, and mouthed two words: _I'm ready_.

His jaw flexed minutely, a tiny flicker on an otherwise schooled face, and then she plummeted. Sparks and smoke whipped harshly around her, and long-repressed tears evaporated the instant they were freed. The air grew hotter and her breathing more troubled with each second, and red droplets floated from the wound, pulled upward by passing currents. Her awareness began to fade and the edges of her vision blurred, though whether from blood loss or lack of oxygen she could not decide. And then she realized what an idiotic train of thought that was, because it hardly mattered.

* * *

Riza's descent slowed abruptly before her back hit liquefied rock, and it felt more akin to landing on a plush bed than a viscous substance significantly denser than herself. The blistering, impossible torridity was absent as well, her environs just excruciatingly warm and, instead of bursting into flame as predicted, a harmless plane of fire sprang to life immediately above her. A faint scream reverberated off the walls and, despite her distant, painless state, it seemed to have clawed from her own throat.

Eventually, she felt herself being dragged over a much firmer surface, and cool air prickled her skin, the sensation unusually sharp after that all-encompassing heat. Her disorientation persisted, the nearby voice garbled and indistinct, all movement sluggish until intense pain carved through her abdomen. She recognized the incomparable agony of a healing charm, as organs and muscle and skin stitched themselves back together. Lacking the wherewithal to camouflage her discomfort, another unwitting shout broke through. Seconds later, an astringent passed beneath her nostrils, and focus swiftly returned to her mind.

She was in the forest, lying on a slim stretch of dirt that appeared to have been hastily cleared of brush via magical means. Her vision gradually sharpened, a dull throb pervaded her abdomen, and a knotted tree root ran along her back, mercilessly kneading muscle. Pushing herself up, she sought out the wound and discovered only bloody clothes atop a newly minted scar, much as she'd suspected. Hearing movement in the trees, she leaned forward with a slight wince, reaching for any possible weapon, and paused when the warlock's apprentice rounded a middle-aged walnut tree. It was only then she noticed the dense fog meandering through the greenery and, accepting the clay mug he offered, she asked, "Did you cloak us, or set fire to the entire forest?"

"I concealed our position, milady." His cheeks reddening, Fuery knelt to return a small collection of leather pouches and glass bottles to his bag. "I suppose my abilities are still rudimentary. The smoke should've gone by now, I know."

"You've just used excess betony. It takes a while longer to evaporate." Riza held the cup beneath her nose, her frown deepening at the scent of mugwort. "Please forgive my lack of tact. It's been a trying day." She paused again to take a disinclined drink, the infusion seeming to slice at her throat on the way down, and asked, "This was his plan all along, then?"

"Yes, he said..." The young man cleared his throat, and fastened the large pack, examining the straps with unnecessary care. "He realized Havoc's hunt for you had been renewed, and chose to use it to our advantage. He said we couldn't risk informing you."

"That's to be expected. I may not have believed him anyway." Rather than prolong that unpleasant experience, the blonde emptied the mug in one swig and rose onto unsteady feet, glancing skyward to gain her bearings. "What is…?"

"Are we ready?" another voice cut in, one that tensed her muscles and straightened her spine.

"Yes, master. The horses are close, and I've procured two weeks' provisions." Fuery swung the bag onto his shoulder and started away, saying, "There's some wild hyssop I'd like to collect."

"Be quick about it," Mustang replied as he stopped before her. His fingers brushed the fresh scar, light penetrating her skin while he evaluated his student's work, and then he pulled away with a nod. "You'll likely experience some nausea, and possible dizziness."

"Nausea, indeed," she remarked lamely, contemplating the diminishing fog with a frown. "Thank you for saving my life. It was more than I deserve, and..."

"I was born in Drachma," he quietly interrupted, a cloak settling on her shoulders with a wave of his hand. "I'm two-hundred-forty years old, and I became a shāthe when I was seventeen. I kept you at a distance before, and for that I apologize."

She smiled. "Bygones, right?"

His gave a slow nod, as if weighing his next words. "About Maes...I let myself stay angry for many years, but the fact is you showed him mercy. Had you captured my brother, he would've spent torturous months at the earl's hands. You spared him that, and I'm grateful."

"Olivier found him first, damaged the talisman. I couldn't…"

"I know." Roy took her hand, and his voice developed an unusual note of trepidation. "Fuery and I leave for Aerugo shortly. His family is in need of assistance."

She ran the cloak's fabric between her fingers, finding it somehow lighter than silk and cozier than wool. His eyes were as earnest as they'd been when she stood bleeding and waiting to die, and with quirked lips she replied, "Is it presumptuous to invite myself along?"

"A little." His expression had relaxed, but it retained a hint of uncertainty.

Riza's hand rose to lightly cup his jaw. " _I'm ready_."

He finally grinned, guiding her closer with a hand on her waist, and teased, "You're lucky I'm the patient sort, aelfna."

"I'm aware." She kissed him softly, and then leaned back with an amused shake of her head. "But you're also a madman. Though I confess I rather love that about you."

Mustang's brow rose. "Madman? This plan was flawless."

"Then you're a mad genius. If Havoc and Bradley discover you betrayed them, they'll be after our hides."

"Even if they realize the truth, it'll be too late. The battle will have begun, and they'll destroy each other. As the lady requested." He tilted his head, and brushed lips across her knuckles. "Still, we should put some distance between ourselves and the warlords."

"That we should." Fingers tracing the thin black lines of the tattoo, Riza observed, "The enchantment's holding."

He gestured toward himself with a nod. "It seems this will be my face for quite some time."

"Good. You're much handsomer than when we first met."

He chuckled and wiped a lingering fleck of ash from her cheek, drawing her into a kiss before his voice lowered, losing none of its warmth. "How fortunate I am."

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the story, and have a good one!


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